


god made me a hungry woman

by doreah



Series: your heart is a shaken fist [3]
Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Don’t copy to another site, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Femslash February, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 02, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Revenge, Secret Relationship, Sequel, Theocracy, War, a most Problematic OTP on many levels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2019-10-25 18:02:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17730035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doreah/pseuds/doreah
Summary: [ God made me a hungry woman,to travel deep waters with a neckthat cranes toward surrenderGod is counting on my hunger now ]---“what happens in gilead, stays in gilead” is easier said than done.(a follow-up to my previous fic, "surround me with shouts of deliverance" because i wasn't quite ready to let that story go. you probably have to read that first to understand any of this.)





	1. lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire;

**Author's Note:**

> playlist available on spotify: [god made me a hungry woman](https://open.spotify.com/user/1118259787/playlist/01YgWHqmZI7lU16Ybe68a7?si=eanpyu5eT3q8Dk8a7PJ1Aw). 
> 
> extra super duper thanks to @lazarus_girl for the wisdom, pump ups, careful eye, and editing assistance. :) x

   

 

>   _HANDMAID #BMA 0-1185_
> 
>  — _TRANSFER FROM—_
> 
>   _District NE01 under Commander #004 – Rank:AAA (Frederick Jeremiah Waterford)_
> 
>  — _TO—_
> 
>   _District GL24 under Commander #134 – Rank:AA (Aaron Francis Prue)_.
> 
>   _Status: Complete._

 

It's a shame for the men of Gilead that simply decreeing a law saying women can't read doesn't actually make that true.

 

Two months and four days after he'd stolen June from you and shipped her off to some unknown locale, you find the confirmation forms in a cupboard of his study. At least twice a week you've crept down to his private den when he's out of the house, or asleep, and searched for the forms. At first you considered the fact he burned them to bar you from ever knowing the truth. But, it's Fred, and he never could let anything go, especially not something he thought was his.

 

The new Handmaid has paid little mind when she sees you coming and going from the study. Clearly, she hasn't been acquainted with the hidden and forbidden realms within, and for that you thank God. It's best that it stays that way. Besides, you can't be worrying about his never-ending addiction for corruption of the innocent again. You don't have the room in your heart, for attachment, nor the energy anymore. One lost Handmaid, and one escaped daughter, are all you have space for.

 

Perhaps _lost_ is not the best word for it because she's not a wild animal escaped from the zoo, or a beloved family dog run off when the backyard gate was left open. (If only she could be so lucky.) She is in a new district, quite far away actually, although not nearly as far as she could have been. Ridiculously close to the Canadian border, which was likely an impulsive oversight on Fred's behalf just to get her anywhere else, as _far from you_ , as soon as possible. But what he probably doesn't realise is you have a cousin there, your favourite cousin growing up. And your mother recently moved to the neighbouring district. You have every right to plan a trip to see her, and your cousin. After all, Gilead is all about families, right?

 

 

* * *

 Your mother had been pleased by your surprise visit. Confused by the timing, but pleased to see you so suddenly. If she notices your distracted demeanour, she never says. Here, in Gilead, it is best not to talk about such things at all, even to your own daughter or mother.

 

Utica, or what used to be called Utica, doesn't really look much different than your memory of it. The blank sky seems darker with the swirling winter clouds on the horizon. Maybe there are more guns, more soldiers, more walls, and more dead bodies hanging from public buildings. You hardly notice such things anymore; they've become so commonplace as to be ineffective tools of inspiring fear and compliance. Once, perhaps, these bloated swinging bodies and armed shadows were persuasive, back when it was new, when it wasn't like the Massachusetts or DC or New York everybody knew.

 

Not to mention, you've never trusted the police and preferred the company of your uncle's militia buddies in the ICVM and Christian Patriots of your home state. Even that leaves a sour taste in your mouth now you've seen what it can become. You disdained the establishment's police forces when Boston was still Boston, and you hate the Guardians, Angels, and Eyes now. Of course you understand their necessity here but it doesn't mean you abide it in your head, in the privacy of your own mind. It's no small coincidence that the very first thing you did with Fred's signature was use the forces against themselves and then dismantle it.

 

Now it all this military growth seems trite, a juvenile attempt at dick-swinging between Commanders and districts. Who has the most Guardians at their beck and call? Who has the highest number of traitorous bodies swinging from their town hall? Whose army is biggest, strongest, bravest? Who can get an innocent Martha shot in the street in broad daylight quickest? Who has the topmost body count?

 

It's not really measured in the way it should be, by highest number of healthy births or loudest childish laughter from playgrounds. Children are merely an afterthought to the cruel, lubricious violence afforded to bloodthirsty men through power of law.

 

Utica is not unique; it is not free of the system. Nor is the place you're to visit your cousin, two and half hours north along winding, disused highways and through the remote wilderness of abandoned state forests.

 

Canton.

 

You know the town after rifling through Fred's road atlas of the United States. He'll hopefully never notice that you've ripped out 7 different pages from it, all along the Canadian border, from Maine to New York. After spending hours hidden in your bedroom, figuring out what routes go where and the terrain in various parts of the country looks like, you have developed options. Honestly, you don't really care about Fred seeing a torn up atlas and knowing it was you, as long as you're already out of the country.

 

You have no intention of ever stepping foot in his wretched house ever again.

 

 

* * *

 The Prues have a Carolina blue, 5-bedroom home on the very outskirts of the Canton area, down some barely used minor, snow-packed highway. It's modest, at least compared to the stone mansions of your district and you wonder how a city girl like her is coping with the farm life, not that there is actually a working farm on the property. It's considered a ritzy house by St. Lawrence County standards and he's the highest ranked Commander in the region but your nose turns up all the same.

 

It's taken a lot of subterfuge, a lot of talking your way around, to get where you are without word getting back to your husband. Firstly, you'd insisted your mother come to visit your cousin with you, so you could take her driver instead and leave yours in Utica, promising to be back in two days. He hadn't seemed particularly interested and you doubted (or hoped) he wouldn't bother reporting something so inane back to Fred. Secondly, you manipulated your cousin to contact Madeline Prue and arrange a visit, instead of you. It will be a surprise that you two just happened to have shared a Handmaid. And, you took her driver instead of your mother's.

 

It needs to be as convoluted a trail as possible under the circumstances, and you can't think of anything better with the few resources available to you. In Gilead, there are no such thing as taxis. You'd stand out like a sore thumb as a Wife on public transit. You can't walk it, not in the middle of this late winter weather in upstate New York. And hitching a ride with an Economan would raise all sorts of red flags, and likely land you smack dab on the doorstep of the local Guardian captain.  

 

By the time Mrs. Prue answers the navy blue door with it's pathetic and weathered corn husk wreath, you can feel something clenching in the back of your throat and your stomach doing somersaults as if you're at sea. Your cousin is oblivious beside you and your 3-fingered hand balls into a fist by your side, hidden by the heavy blue cloak.

 

Mrs. Prue with her mousy brown hair, small stature, and timid smile appears to whither at the sight of you, _the_ Serena Joy Waterford, paragon of domestic feminism and Gileadean excellence, on her doorstep. The week-old belt lash wounds on the back of your thighs throb.

 

“Blessed day.”

 

They're _all_ so oblivious.

 

 

* * *

 You don't see her initially, and why would you? It's rare that Wives invite visitors to ogle the Handmaids upon entering a household; those sorts of things are best left in the shadows, not blatant reminders of the state of play. You've still not mentioned that Ofaaron is Offred (is _June_ ) because that would look suspicious and the way Madeline's sour-faced Guardian is glaring at you, it's probably best not to let too much of your motive leak out just yet.

 

In some way, there's a resistive flicker in his dark eyes that reminds you of Nick a little too much and you wonder if she's seen that familiarity as well. Your chest tightens at the possibility of what that could mean. It's _not_ jealousy, you adamantly remind yourself as a biting whip of anger resentment through your blood at the thought of him.

 

You've been making useless small talk for over an hour before your ears pick up the clodding sound of her footsteps in those atrocious boots as they come down the wooden farmhouse stairs. Mrs. Prue looks to you first and then over your shoulder at her, presumably. There's something grey in her face, like a passing raincloud on an otherwise comfortable day.

 

“Ofaaron, please.”

 

The tone is measured but sharp, and you're not sure if that is a warning or an invitation for her to join the Wives, but it doesn't really matter because as June passes the room, her eyes scan the guests and the colour drains from her cheeks when you make eye contact. There's that survival tip that if you're on a mountain and suddenly feel a tickling sensation all over your skin and your hair standing on end, get the Hell out of there because lightning is imminent. You've never been in a situation like that before, but you can swear on the Bible that this is exactly what it would feel like.

 

The room is quiet; the women are all staring at you, staring at her. Is anybody breathing? The worst part is that you're not certain what is on your face, whether there's a smile or a scowl or pure confusion. She's as blank as the snow-covered field next door.

 

There's only one solution. Your tongue bites down on _June_. “Offred?” You manage to say the word with as much disbelief as you can muster, as if you had no idea she was living here now. At least she's shocked enough for the both of you. Like she's seeing a waking nightmare draped in blue, like she wants to die.

 

 

* * *

 A soft cough.

 

Madeline is reciting some tedious tale of catching a previous Guardian petting one of the neighbour's few remaining Holsteins. _You know_ , she says at the beginning of almost every sentence as if you all are familiar with the workings of rural, agricultural America. “You know, like the black and white milk cows. You know, like in the cartoons! Can you even imagine?”

 

Her sheer, catty joy is repulsive, especially since you know how this story ends. It had been the stuff of hushed scandalous rumours in districts from here to either coast. _The Cow-Fucking Guardian_ , Fred had chuckled ruefully one evening over a plate of particularly tough flank steak. And there had never been an ounce of evidence that Guardian had ever done more than pet it, as one would a horse or dog.

 

Another cough, a little more insistent than the first.

 

Your mother is howling with laughter and you wonder, not for the first time, how you're even related to these people, if parts of her are indeed ingrained inside you. Her eyes are the same shade of blue as yours but you certainly had never considered bestiality a source of riotous amusement, not even a little.

 

Nervously, your fingers are picking, stroking at a soft fabric, your attention taken from the idle action by the tittering of women around you. It's like a tic, an anxious habit, and you don't even recognise that your hand is resting on red cloth until there is a third, firmer cough from your right-hand side. It must be true that old habits die hard because your hand is there, resting on her thigh, in view of everybody else, fiddling with the fabric as if part of some intimate ritual. There's a flush up your neck as you recall grasping hard at those thighs, digging your fingers into supple flesh, naked in your bed back in your district.

 

This isn't that, of course. It's again like how one may nonchalantly pet a dog. The terrifying thing is you could face the Cow-Fucking Guardian's same fate for basically the same action. And, really, their suspicions this time wouldn't be entirely wrong.

 

She's pressed up against you on the small sofa, in between you and your wonderfully preoccupied cousin, dutifully sitting with the Wives, silent and well-behaved. Mrs. Prue had smiled, forced and huge, and magnanimously invited her Handmaid into the sitting room when she'd realised that Ofaaron is Offred. Likely, she isn't a mean or bad woman, but she's as equally resentful of the Handmaid system as every Wife.

 

Despite the open seating, you'd patted the place beside you, like inviting a timid child to you and she'd acquiesced, reluctantly. And so it had been for the better part of an hour and sometime during those long minutes of boring tales and gossip, your hand had found itself on her leg, like old times under your duvet.

 

Your fingers freeze and you wonder if anybody has noticed other than her. With a quick pat as one would placate a restless dog, you fold your hands in your own lap and pretend to be intensely interested in the women's conversation even though you have no idea what they're talking about any longer. There's a terse smile on your lips and you desperately attempt to keep your gaze from wandering to your right. The room is hot, stuffy, and even the smooth silk of you blue blouse feels scratchy against the inflamed skin of your neck.

 

Outside, there's a light drifting of snowflakes and you accidentally let a soft sigh slip out as you stare out the large, bright window.

 

Madeline's dark eyes slice over to you at the sound and you straighten your spine instinctively, dodging her gaze out of habit. There was a time in your life that you'd meet that stare head on, defiant even, unable to back down in the face of any challenge. That was when you had belief, faith, and the backing of an angry mob. But when you know there's something you're trying to keep a secret, one that can have you killed, it makes you meek and guilty.

 

“Ofaaron,” Mrs. Prue's firm voice rings out above the conversation, interrupting your cousin's recollection of her husband's mishaps on a combine harvester. “Perhaps you'd like to give Mrs. Waterford a tour of our house.”

 

Squinting, you can't tell if Madeline is being gracious or testing you in some way. Does she suspect? If she does, is this bait to encircle you in your own greed or is she providing you with a subtle gift? Her expression remains stoic apart from a smirk that could mean absolutely anything.

 

“Yes, Mrs. Prue.” June's voice is breathy, acquiescent, if a little irritated. It's perfect really. That small hint of annoyance should be enough to throw off the scent for any suspicions. Hopefully.

 

 

* * *

 It's amazing how little June has said. Nothing more than a few mentions of the room she's pointing at, her voice strangled and stilted. Everything about her is flat and lifeless, scared even. It doesn't help that the nameless Guardian has followed you through every corridor, two steps back but far too close for comfort. As she reaches the backdoor, she reaches up for her heavy red cloak, pulling it silently around her shoulders and looks to you to do the same. A Martha is there with yours, as if she'd been expecting this exact moment, like it's some sort of practised routine, which makes you uneasy.

 

The cold wind hits your cheeks before you can catch your breath, swirling a light sprinkling of snow around your face. She closes the door softly behind you, leaving the Guardian indoors to watch through the window. Perhaps they know there's nowhere to run, not in the spring in upstate New York. You'd have to be literally crazy to even attempt it.

 

Old wooden boards creak in the chilled temperatures and you resent the weather suddenly, despite your previous yearning for it from within the warmth of the sitting room. There's nothing worse than these never-ending winters. Between the climate and the mild form of nuclear winter caused by the War of Redemption and numerous reactor meltdowns across the country during the rise of Gilead, cold springs such as this have stretched out months longer than they used to. It's May and snow is still coming down. Sure, it no longer sticks to the ground for long, it melts into muddy messes instead, but it's damp and leaks into your bones.

 

She doesn't speak again until you're halfway between the farmhouse and the poolhouse, that doubles now as the Guardian's residence.

 

“What are you doing here?” It's conspiratorial, a pointed whisper barely audible over the eerie whistle of wind through the rungs of a disused waterslide. You have to skip a step to catch up to her, despite your much larger gait.

 

“What do you think?” you snap for a reason that isn't even clear to you. There's just something about her bitchy tone that grates on your nerves, especially after all you've done and everything you've risked to get to this exact place, for _her_.

 

She marches faster around to the side of the poolhouse, perhaps out of view of the house. “Honestly, I have no idea, Serena.” Maybe the irritation in front of Mrs. Prue wasn't just an act.

 

You abruptly grab hold of her sleeve, yanking her to a halt in the shadows, sheltered from the wind and snow and the view from the farmhouse. “Do you think I came all the way here, specifically to the middle of goddamn nowhere, for a casual _social visit_?” You hand tightens and balls the red fabric into a fist. Her attitude makes no sense to you. Why is she angry with you for this?

 

She brusquely wrenches her arm away from your grip, her blue eyes lighting up with fury, narrowing into daggers. Her lips quirk as if she's just figured it all out and backs up against the aluminum siding of the poolhouse. It's bait and she knows it. She makes it even more obvious when her fingers wander out to toy with the edge of your blue cloak, tugging it loosely, suggestively even, towards her.

 

God, you _hate_ her so much as you feel the blood rush south and your intake of breath stutters with temptation. It just so easy for her to do this to you, like you're the ballerina in that music box and she's the crank.

 

Since she already knows, there's very little point in stalling any longer. Surging forward, you press your lips to hers, pushing her up against the cold wall, towering over her even as your boots sink into the soft mud. Your hands clasp desperately at her jaw, her hair, her shoulders, _anything_. There's a part in your brain that recognises with relief that she is actively returning your bruising kisses, her pants against your lips and her tongue in your mouth. You can feel the purposeful slide of her palms along your waist, seeking some opening in the fabric to get to your inflamed skin although she won't find anything to satiate her hunger.

 

It's been over two months since you've felt like this, but seems like years now you're in it again. Lust boils in every vein, searing your nerves with need. Your fingers dig into her skin and you feel as if you're diving into her body itself, deep, immersed entirely in her. Every tiny moan that you manage to draw from her brushes along your skin, tasting like fire and ash. Your strangled mewling and needy sighs ring loudly in your own ears as if you're an actress in one of Fred's ridiculous porn videos.

 

A chilly wisp of breeze reminds you of the place and time, and as you finish drinking your fill of her kisses, there's a pride about the vision you see staring back at you. Her face is flushed, lips pink and swollen, pupils large and a bit glazed. Perfect. Her hair has come loose from under the white bonnet and you tuck a lock back up over her ear as you attempt to steady your erratic breathing.

 

“You get what you need?” The embittered tone of her question violently breaks whatever bubble of pleasure you'd been floating in.

 

 _Not even close_ , you think. It's probably not even possible for her to give you everything you need. You don't even know the extent of it yourself.

 

A growl erupts from your chest at her insinuation, low and warning. “June.”

 

She shakes her head at you, shoulders slumping against the wall and heaving a great sad sigh. As the blush fades from her face, her eyes latch onto yours, impertinent but there's a sheen of water to them. It could be from the cold, but you suspect there's more to it than that. There's always more to her than meets the eye. “What took you so long? Serena...”

 

Your name escapes her like a plea. And there's the crux. You wonder what she's done here, what's been done _to_ her, but you're afraid to let those questions free. The answers would only inspire further guilt and maybe that's exactly what she wants, to make you suffer as you should for this.

 

“It was as fast I could.” The words echo hollowly, sounding like an excuse rather than the truth. You could regale her with tales of how many nights you'd broken into Fred's dark den, meticulously and patiently pawing through every book in the study, every piece of paper for any sort of hint, hunting for her name as a lioness would her prey.

 

She doesn't care. She wouldn't even if you explain it. Any moment here is one second too many.

 

“Did they...” You can't form the words.

 

“No. No.” _Not like you did_ , she could say, but she generously allows you to escape that noose this time.

 

Nodding, you shift slightly closer, knowing you're both pushing the amount of time spent outside. Surely, you'll soon hear the crunching of Guardian boots approaching and be faced with the familiar eyes. “Good.” You can't help it when you kiss her again, only briefly. “I'm going to fix _all_ this.”

 

Her tired eyes meet yours. Silence.

 

Of course she can't believe you now. You'd said the same thing about the birthrate crisis and look what happened.

 

 

* * *

 When Madeline insists you stay the night, the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. Her face is inscrutable, and her voice even, possibly even friendly, but there's a serious lack of trust with any stranger, man or woman. First, she sent you and June off like school chums who haven't seen each other in an age. Now, she's offering you a sleepover and part of you wants to know how much of this is some misplaced mothering instinct, how much is suspicion of you, and how much is a test.

 

It takes almost three full hours for you to relax that evening because despite all the pleasant conversation over a particularly well-cooked meal thanks to her Martha, you still expect that Commander Prue has secretly alerted your husband to your whereabouts. You keep as much distance between their Handmaid and yourself as humanly possible to avoid further piquing his interest about his wife's sudden visitor.

 

June is in her room for the evening, and it's only after dessert when you and Madeline are alone in her sitting room that the truth begins to finally trickle out. An ambush, after all.

 

You're a specimen for her study. Something of an odd curiosity, like those deformed fetuses in jars that you'd seen once in a horrible museum as part of your self-indoctrination. You're a zoo animal, wild once but trapped now within a cage of your own design and all the more miserable for it. She watches you carefully, taking in every flinch, every fidget, and hanging on every word you utter. Her gaze only shifts momentarily to your missing fingers, her head cocking to the side the way your Masters supervisor used to do to you when asking a question.

 

It turns out she is— _was—_ an ethologist, with a post doctorate in behavioural ecology. _Figures_. A doctor of science. You quietly consider how much of yourself you were forced to kill to be a Wife and wonder, with some sense of perverse awe, how she's still even alive.

 

Clearly, her invitation was for her own entertainment, to witness the woman chained and how such a defiant creature has dealt with her own entrapment. You are Serena Joy Waterford: righteous champion of the movement, epitome of a Wife, exemplar of Gileadean success... and the very essence of impulse and agony. Her questions, although adequately hypothetical enough to avoid any serious allegations of impiety or treason, speak to her inquisitive mind, and her disbelief that a person like you exists happily in the system. You'd felt like an animal on display in Canada, of course. But here, it's just you and her chocolate eyes boring deeply into you, avidly searching for something you're not sure you have to offer her. You can tell she's dying to know the details of June's kidnapping, of Nicole's abduction and fate, of every juicy scandal that has befallen your house of the wicked despite being in such Gileadean high-standing.

 

It's really not that complicated.

 

Envy, greed, pride, wrath and lust. Five out of seven sounds about right. The first and last are your particularly frequent bugaboos, or most constant, trusted companions depending on how you approach it. (The last one, well, that one was newer. An evolution of your immorality, some would claim.)

 

After a long pause, and Madeline quietly contemplating your lost fingers for the third time this evening, she gazes up at you in a way that would be coy, if you didn't know better. “You and Ofaaron seem close.” She lingers on the final word, her hand drawing small circles on her own thigh. Of course a behaviourist wouldn't have missed that transgression. “For a Wife and Handmaid, at any rate.”

 

There's a heat that builds under your cheeks as you curse how easily you're brought to shame, how transparent you are under the microscope. 

 

“Yes, well,” you begin, channelling every ounce of poise that remains of the dutiful Wife you aim to represent. “God has graced us with His blessing of fruitful camaraderie.”

 

Madeline peers at you over the rim of her cup as she takes a careful sip of herbal tea. “Oh. Is that what it's called?”

 

How foolish of you to have let down your guard so easily. This woman knows far more than she should, and suddenly you feel like a cornered animal. She's effectively snared you in your own simple words. That plain and demure Wife who had answered the door is nowhere to be seen; you've given leave for the true woman to escape, to hunt (for truth, for a reckoning). Surely your eyes must belay some fear as you attempt to reaffirm the platonic, godly nature of it all.

 

You resist because you must. “Yes.”

 

“Well, I suppose we all have our roles to play,” she muses aloud, unafraid, passing a pointed arch of an eyebrow towards you. _Liar_ , it screams at you and you simply react in the only way known to you now.

 

“If a man say, _I love God_ , and hateth his brother, he is a liar; for he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God.” The recantation sounds hollow even to you. Somewhere along the way, somewhere between the juncture of her strong thighs and the space between her pink lips, you'd lost sight of the power of such words.

 

“Indeed,” Madeline intones blandly, the both of you playing the parts assigned, resentful at the truths being trodden over with every moment.

 

You recognise clearly why the laws were passed to ban learning in women. What a formidable force Madeline Prue could be if let loose upon such a repressed world.

 

She stands, eventually, stretching out her shoulders, flexing her hands as if she's trying to grasp a ghost. As she towers over you, you feel a soft weight on your shoulder, her fingers tapping lightly against the blue satin covering your scars.

 

“We've put you in the guest bedroom at the end of the hall—” a short squeeze complements her words—“Next to the Handmaid.”

 

The ringing in your ears deafens you to the sound of Mrs. Prue's steps retiring for the night to her own room. By the time you find your voice, she's gone. You recite it all the same, to the empty room.

 

“Under His eye.”

 

 

* * *

It's as if her very flesh is spilling through your fingers and you grasp at anything you can to hold on just a little bit longer. _Mercury_ , you think, as her body roils and ebbs under your hands, under your tongue, sliding away and towards you in a rhythm of only her knowing. Wave after wave hits you; she's a hurricane wrapped in a woman and you're drowning quickly, being sucked under by the current.

 

A force of nature, beyond your control, beyond the control of man or God, grips you by the neck and you can't breathe under its strength. You claw at her skin, trying to tame the tempest just enough, as she gasps for the nearing release. You greedily drink in her desire, revelling in the slick feeling of your mouth against her as she keels and you lose yourself a bit more. What used to tether you to reality feels weaker now.

 

Her hands tug at your hair, crushing you against her as she comes and for a long minute you can't breathe, only ride out her orgasm with her. As you kiss slowly up her body in the aftermath, leaving glistening trails of herself across the plains of her dampened skin, she shivers and sighs with relief, whispering your name. It floats like a hymn to your ears.

 

There was a time when your faith was strong, steeled by hate and fear. When you fell to your knees in the shadows of near-empty churches, your prayers swam with desperate pleas and stodgy guilt on behalf of the wicked and heathens. You had no need of absolution when you were doing His will. Now that's all you seek... but not from the Lord. With your faith shaken, your religion is found in the dip and crests of her body, your prayers answered by her sighs, and your soul lies prone before hers. Her clever mind and indomitable spirit have been nothing but impenetrable to your attacks, until she turns the tables on you, forcing you to confront the reflection of the demon inside.

 

Gone are the stone churches of men and you fall to your knees between her thighs instead, lathering your worship on her and nothing in your mind warns about a golden calf. She's the only true thing you've found in Gilead. Her, and the love for your daughter. ( _Her_ daughter, in the trusted care of strangers somewhere far away.)

 

There's a drop of blood on her lip where she'd bitten down too hard, to restrain herself. With a lick, it disappears and her hand moves down to the juncture of your legs, slipping fingers against the nest of curls she finds, and you can't resist the buck of your hips as she plunges deeper. Your arms feel weak, and you collapse to your elbows instead. Your forehead rests against her sweat-covered one as your chest heaves and you gulp in a ragged breath.

 

“Oh, God,” you whimper, eyes screwed tight, submerged in the scent and feel of her as she moves inside you. She swallows the sound, taking full ownership of it because you both know it's not a deity in the sky that you are calling out to. As she eases you onto your back, as you submit to her will and her purposeful movements, she covers you with her lips, her hair, her body.

 

She is both the flood and the ark.

 

 

* * *

 The temporary escape from Gilead fades with the dawn, as slices of early sun cut through the windows. Of course, you and her exist only in the shadows, in the dark, hidden corners. Even if Madeline is aware of your transgressions and of your sin, you know she will not abide such blatant crimes during the daylight hours, not when the entire household is at risk.

 

June stirs in the bed next to you with a quiet groan. The soft morning light glows on her bare skin and against her golden hair. Her back is to you which makes waking slightly easier as there's no waxing poetic about disturbing her angelic sleeping face. The duvet falls around your waist as you sit up, running a hand over your face, trying to wrangle your thoughts together to meet the day. Reaching down, you grab for the discarded nightgown from the previous night.

 

There is still a hint of her scent on your lips as you breathe in deeply, steadying your nerves.

 

“June,” you attempt, whispering as loudly as you dare considering a Guardian could be standing right outside the door. It's doubtful but still possible. “ _June_.”

 

She groans again, louder and rolls over, blue eyes bleary and unfocused.

 

“Hey,” you try again, gently. The thud in your chest scares you for a moment. It's been so long since you've been this excited to see a lover's face in the morning.

 

“Hmm,” she grumbles, grinding the heel of her hand into her eyes as she flops back against the pillows, unashamed at the state of her nakedness. It's something you've never enjoyed, nor will ever find possible now, knowing the state of the scars vandalizing your once-smooth skin. A spike of jealousy pulses across your chest.

 

Pulling your nightgown tighter around your body, you remain perched on the edge of the mattress, watching her over your shoulder. Discomfort runs through your limbs, as you feel like an interloper in a strange land, unwanted and insecure. You're not accustomed to this, you and her, in the morning light, as if it's all normal and natural. Something tickles the back of your throat with a threat, a nervous fear. This only made sense when hidden; this way makes you face the reality—and there's little you enjoy less than facing truth.

 

“You're going to be ready?”

 

Her morning gaze meets your stare, direct and steady. Something in her icy eyes flickers and your paranoia kicks in without cause.

 

She nods slowly. “Of course.”

 

For some reason, this time, you don't believe her.


	2. how can spring take heart to come to a world in grief

Every nerve is _screaming_. Your hands are clenched so tightly around the steering wheel that you can practically see the white bones poking through. You have maybe 45 minutes before the emergency roadblocks go up around the perimeter of Fort Drum and Watertown. Every freeway and highway will have checkpoints, and Collins Landing will be impossible to bypass. You didn't understand what had fascinated you so much when modifying the security protocols for Fred then but your morbid curiosity had never been something you could tame.

 

You have just under two hours before river patrol is increased. You'll never make it before then. You can only hope to pass through Fort Drum before it's locked down. That means staying on the state routes until then, despite the risk, and being inconspicuous as possible with a Handmaid next to you and a kidnapped child in the back. Your stolen Guardian uniform and large stature driving this Guardian vehicle will only fool passing cars for so long. The Eyes will figure it out more quickly than you'd like.

 

June is next to you, eerily naked without her white bonnet. It's unnerving to see her in all black, hair tucked up under a cap. Her gaze is rapt on the pilfered roadmap pages you'd ripped from Fred's atlas as she studies the routes you'd traced in red pen. It's one icy sideroad after another, intersecting, doubling-back, going around, in a web of dirt roads all leading to a single marina on the edge of the Thousand Islands. _So_ close to Canada.

 

Without even raising her eyes, she knows exactly what's going on. “Relax or you'll get us all killed.” Bored. She actually sounds bored.

 

Of course, she's the old pro at escaping Gilead. This is going to be her, what, fourth attempt? There's no pithy saying for failing three times and possibly succeeding on the fourth. Except perhaps that one about repetition and insanity.

 

You ease off the gas just a little and move one finger to your mouth, chewing a nail momentarily. “Escape for thy life,” you begin muttering for lack of any other soothing thoughts. “Look not behind thee, neither stay thou in all the plain; escape to the mountain, lest thou be consumed.”

 

She lazily hums next to you, only partly paying attention, still staring at the map. “What mountain?”

 

“Nevermind,” you mumble, not feeling the impetus to explain religious metaphor to her right now.

 

Getting Hannah out of Oswegatchie Camp was simple—much simpler than expected when you have the pretense of authority from being Commander Waterford's Wife—and getting June away from the Prues, even easier in that foggy, ill-protected farmland with a Wife so willing to turn a blind eye, again. You can see how June escaping so many times had happened: the system isn't exactly set up to expect anybody will be quite daring or stupid enough to attempt escape. More of that Gileadean ignorance. It wasn't really all that difficult. Getting across the border will be the hardest leg, and for you three, it'll be likely far more challenging. You have female child, nearing puberty, and thus the most prized of all earthly possessions. You idly wonder how far you can get before this vehicle will need to be abandoned. A creeping sense of dread inches up your back at the thought of crawling through cold, muddy fields with a young child.

 

Hannah whines wordlessly in the backseat. Your eyes leave the road only long enough to make sure June has acknowledged the sound.

 

“What's wrong, sweetie?” She's turned to look at her daughter.

 

“I'm bored.”

 

Normally, this sort of thing would be endearing to you, as someone who is not a parent. But in this particular circumstance, it's irritating and you pray June has a solution because you don't. There are no iPads or cellphones or Nintendo whatevers for anybody anymore. And god forbid giving a child a book to read. June shuffles the papers in her hands, picking out the page of northern Vermont and hands it to her with a pen.

 

There's no hard surface for her to use, really, but June flips it over and allows Hannah to draw or scribble or whatever it is that children do with a pen and paper. Maybe that will keep her occupied for a little while.

 

It's going to be a very long journey.

 

 

* * *

 There is probably only one positive thing about being in upstate New York and that is the fact it's basically a wasteland of abandoned farms and empty roads. You'd assumed your original plan of trekking through the foothills of Vermont would have been fairly similar—except it lacked even the spattering of disused properties available to you here. It's a task you're not particularly familiar with: assessing which farms are abandoned and which are merely is a state of disrepair because everything is here. Econopeople have no funding from Gilead, no federal bailout money, no district tax breaks, no international trade income. Eden probably could have told you how to spot the difference.

 

Eden.

 

The catalyst. You would have liked to believe Nicole fulfilled that role, but in actuality, you suspect it was pious little Eden with her wide, naive, innocent God-loving—but not God-fearing—eyes. That made the difference. She could have been the perfect wife, the new generation. She trusted her god, your god, Gilead's god, to love her for and despite her stupid teenage actions. But she more than anybody else, even June herself, called out Gilead and forced it to look upon itself. Giving into juvenile puppy love fantasies beyond the claws of Gilead, to die for a crush, was one thing—and likely the only purpose in Eden's heart at the time. To pull the hypocrisy of the laws out into the blazing light of day was quite another, the unforeseen spark of a rebellion.

When you heard Nicole's cries, you only saw Eden. You hadn't needed June to question what sins she committed; you'd repeated them over and over to yourself all night long because if you said it enough, it could become true.

 

 _S_ _he wasn't smart enough, she wasn't strong enough, she hadn't loved God enough_. It felt like talking into a mirror.

 

So you had needed June to tempt you in the greenhouse. Red, like the apple in the garden. Clever, like the serpent. A _woman_ , all in one. Restrained tears and angry words were no defence against truth, and the taste of knowledge was far too delectable to resist. Your very own original sin.

 

The vehicle, that big hulking black Hummer, had been discarded miles back into a thawing pond. You and her had seen it done enough in movies to figure out how to drive it into the pond, out of sight, out of mind. Although neither of you are exactly sure how far it is to the marina, after Fort Drum, roadblocks and checkpoints had sprung up every half-mile along main routes, and sometimes at intersections for rural roads. They were the same kind of checkpoints that you and her had dismantled in your home district, coupled with the freeing feeling of being a heretic, a traitor, and a woman all at once. Like you are now, except you don't have your husband's signature to hide behind. The next time he signs his name alongside yours it will be your execution warrant.

 

A little body shivers next to you and you reach out, over her and grab hold of a bunch of heavy woollen cloth, tugging it closer. There's a strong grip on your wrist, a response to your pulling. You hold her as close as possible without suffocating Hannah between you.

 

The floor is moist and cold despite all the hay and horse blankets, the horses long dead and gone. You had no idea you had an allergy to hay until an hour ago and wish that antihistamines were still a readily available reality that you'd packed in the makeshift first aid kit.

 

You daydream about that four-post bed back in your district, with it's blue and grey linens, too many pillows, and soft duvet. It would have been easy to stay there, easier than this, anyway. Sure, you'd have to actively kill whatever was left of your humanity and substitute it with vicious religious doctrine. But at least you would be able to sleep without the threat of your throat closing up every five seconds. It had cooked meals, a personal servant, a furnace, hot water, your own greenhouse, all the knitting you could possibly do...

 

Oh. _Right_.

 

Here you have a cold stack of musty hay serving as a bed, a horse blanket, a roof, bone-chilling damp, allergies, the constant threat of being caught and murdered by the state, and _her_. That last one may overwhelm all the negatives. She's akin to the last vestige in Pandora's box, the one remaining light in this dank, miserable place, the thing that makes it all worth it because she brings a living hope and you are its prisoner.

 

 _You are my hiding place and my shield; I hope in your word_.

 

You often wonder, probably more than is healthy, if God will forgive you for your betrayal, forsaking him on her behalf. There is something addictive about the ability to reach out and touch that which holds your faith, and have it touch you in return. No empty words, no desperate whispers into the silent night, no tears left on the backs of wooden pews. She hears, she whispers back, she wipes away stray weakness, guilt and grief.

 

You can't see a thing in the darkness, but you can hear her quiet breaths and Hannah's tiny exhausted snores. (She has allergies too, clearly.) This is nowhere even close to where you saw your life going even a few months ago, huddled in a barn, freezing, and on the lam. You especially didn't picture it being next to her, and her child. Alone, perhaps. You'd had fantasies of running, all alone, escaping of your own volition. Of course, you did. Any sane woman in Gilead must. But running with her, that wasn't expected really.

 

Being dependent on others is not a particularly developed trait of yours, not voluntarily anyway. You'd always hated group projects in school and usually ended up either sitting silently, resentfully, imagining how you were going to complete it all on your own, or alternately, depending on the personalities of the other members, assuming complete control and having everything done your way, regardless of whether you even knew what you were doing or not. Trust of anybody, especially in their competence, always came in short supply.

 

Reliance on others, you loathe it. Except when the Lord was brought into it, for salvation, for Gilead, for the birthrate crisis. (For your own ego.)

 

That was another thing she stole from you. First your pedestal, then your husband, then your motherhood, then your faith, and finally now, your ego. She's seen you stripped bare, right down to the very bones of your entire existence and left trembling in her shadow.

 

Yet you feel safer here, in the cold unknown wilds of New York state, on the run for your lives in a rickety hay shed, with her steady breathing and gentle warmth than in all the brick houses of Gilead.

 

 

* * *

 It's like tiny shards of ice against your chapped, red cheeks. The boat hits a small wave, surges up, and then smacks down hard on the water. More freezing cold water splashes your face as you squint against the wind and blowing snow. Next you June is gripping Hannah tightly, the only one in the boat with a life jacket on. Between the lack of life preservers, the whipping ice water, the incoming patrol boats, and the fact you've never actually piloted a motorboat, life seems like it's incredibly precarious at the moment. (You worry that Nicole had to endure similar to this.)

 

The tinboat takes another wave, broadside as the rushing winter waters of the St. Lawrence break free of the thick, ice-encrusted banks.

 

Fuck, since when were rivers so huge? Any second and Gilead's military boats will break through the wet snow, lights flashing and guns laser-trained on you. You have no idea where the Canadian border is anymore; there are no lights or flares or naval guardships. Just deep green water, on every side. Hannah screams as she slips off the bare metal bench and into the water-logged bottom of the boat.

 

You think June yells at you but the words are lost in the struggling roar of the outboard motor. No doubt it's a complaint about your marine navigation skills. God forbid she spend just two minutes being grateful for all of this instead of bitching.

 

All these pieces didn't just magically spring into place; you'd planned it all down to the exact marina and exact boat that would take you to freedom. Hiding in the tackle shop from the roving Guardian search hadn't been planned, nor had the way Hannah gripped tightly to your arm as you all crouched, trembling, under the bait counter, stinking of dead nightcrawlers and algae. But this? Your dad used to take you and your brother out on the river in his tinboat once upon a time, fishing rods in hand. Of course, you were never allowed to drive the boat; that was a boy's job. You had paid attention anyway. This was all part of your plan and if you can outrun Gilead just long enough to reach the soggy Canadian shores, you'll consider yourself a great architect. A saviour.

 

Blue and red flashing lights blink ahead of you in the blackness of a treed shoreline. A siren from behind you grows closer by the second. Hannah's screams ring in the same pitch.

 

Without warning, the metal hull of your crappy stolen boat crunches loudly and the whole boat lurches forwards and then sideways. You gun the motor harder, pushing through the thick, slushy river-ice. _Why winter?_ You've asked yourself a hundred times by now. The spring thaw has only melted half the pack ice. There's a burning smell from the stern as you push the engine to its limits, and a blinding searchlight from behind lights up June and Hannah.

 

Canada is so close.

 

But so are the Eyes.

 

The stinging in your eyes blurs your vision and you hate yourself for breaking now after so much. Tears are useless, a hindrance actually, but somehow inevitable when you realize you will never be this close again and all of this effort is going to be in vain. June is screaming, at you, at the Eyes, at the Canadians, you're not sure who. Hannah's crying, sobbing wordlessly and clinging more weakly now to her mother's stolen parka. Any minute, the motor will seize and you'll all be stranded in the middle of the river. Easy pickings for Gilead, flotsam drifting back into the black hole of faithlessness that God has forgotten. 

 

There are no secret tricks for getting a shitty fishing boat through spring ice flows on a dangerous, flowing river and you're out of options by now. So, you squeeze the throttle again. A plume of black soot rises up and the smell of burning oil and electrical permeates your nostrils, even with the wind and rain. If only you could get the damn boat just 50 more feet.

 

You know you're in Canadian waters now—you're so close to their shore, you must be. But you also know how precious your cargo is to Gilead and they'll break international laws to kidnap you all, no matter what. Canada won't fight. They've got no boats in the water anyway, and certainly no guns.

 

20 feet to go and the ice is broken but too thick. The bow gets lodged between two large pieces of floating ice and that's it. You briefly wonder how long a human can last in waters of this temperature. Surely that would be a better death than whatever awaits you back in Gilead. What takes longer: drowning or hanging?

 

June's blue eyes latch onto yours, wide, panicked. As the motor sputters out all you can do it stare back at her and bite your lip. You'd come so close.

 

Without more than a brief nod to you, she grabs Hannah and yanks her towards the bow, scrambling over the hull and down onto the ice. It bobs under her weight and she slides down, pulling her screaming daughter behind. For a moment you lose sight of both of them and only hear the frantic splashing of water and crying.

 

Is it 20 feet? Maybe it's less. Maybe it only seems that far away because you've lost your mind.

 

Whatever it is, you follow June. That's all you've ever really done and there's no other option now. She will not abide her daughter being found amidst the wreckage of a godless kingdom, being broken by it, so neither must you.

 

The water is shocking cold and immediately you lose all your breath, your muscles seize painfully, and you think perhaps your heart actually stops. There's thick sludge under your feet and swampgrasses tangling your ankles in these over-sized combat boots. It's not that far and you can make it.

 

Wrenching Hannah's other arm, you and June lumber through the shallows, pushing aside ice blocks and ignoring the stabbing pain of hypothermia in your extremities because there's only one thing that matters now and it's mere steps away on the Canadian side of the border. You can see the outlines of army personnel, guns up, lights flashing like they're expecting this, like it's a regular occurrence. (It probably is.) And before you can think much more about the lack of feeling in your hands, there are people yelling at you, urging you closer. They drown out the sirens and warning gunfire from Gilead's warboats.

 

It doesn't take any communication as you both push Hannah ahead, practically throwing her at the feet of the waiting tactically-clad RCMP on the banks. Gone are the friendly red jacket and funny hats you'd seen in movies, instead replaced with uniforms of severity befitting of their role now. For a moment, you glance at June, her skin blue and cold and realize that it's _over_. Everything else could end in a second too. As you feel a strong gloved hand pulling you up onto solid land, you reach wildly for her, collapsing against the cold mud. You can barely feel anything in any extremity but you hold her momentarily, laughing breathlessly, feeling the only warmth coming from your eyes and pouring down your cheeks. And then clammy lips against your own as you grab hold of her face, crushing her to you in a display that would certainly embarrass you at any other time in your life.

 

Within seconds, she's pulled away by the imposing RCMP, bundled with Hannah into blankets and dragged into the back of a waiting ambulance.

 

It's the last time you ever see Offred.


	3. bleakness, through the trees and bushes, comes without sound

The rundown high-rise on Sherbourne Street isn't at all what you had envisioned for yourself as a young woman. Firstly, it's in Canada of all places. Secondly, living on the borderline of abject poverty is something new and altogether unpalatable in contrast to the comfortable privilege you'd previously been afforded. But at least you can pick up a book, _any_ book, here and not lose a hand.

 

Small miracles.

 

Nothing else about your situation feels normal however as you look around the kitchen and the paltry spread of mismatched dishes from the local thrift shop. When you'd arrived, you couldn't even afford those and the social worker from the refugee centre had to purchase a mug, plate, bowl, and utensils for you. Every passing humiliation seemed worse and worse, as if you hadn't finished hitting rock bottom. If you keep this up, you'll dig yourself down into Hell before you even die.

 

The mould, the cockroaches, the plethora of mice you swear live in the walls, and the rumours of bed bugs from the postings in the elevator all remind you that this isn't Gilead anymore. It's not as if Gilead doesn't have those—you're certain it does, _somewhere_ —but it's not something you ever had to concern yourself with in that big, old house in the suburbs.

 

You had overheard some small blonde in the centre call your neighbourhood “G-Dump”. It's literally the trash pile where they dump Gileadean refugees, like human garbage. And it stinks like a dump too. All you can do is hope Nicole is nowhere nearby, or June for that matter since you can only pray they are together again as all your attempts at finding out have hit privacy-protected blockades.

 

It was pretty bad here before, you'd heard, but the city has moved on all the previous lower income residents and crammed way too many of Gilead's immigrants into the tower blocks spanning the length of the road. You're not sure how much truth is in that however since you can't walk out your door without setting your gaze on a bedraggled prostitute or twitchy drug addict and you're pretty certain they're not fellow refugees.

 

(They all leave you alone. Not even the neighbourhood junkies want anything to do with you.)

 

Marnie, your assigned crisis worker, is frazzled on a near-constant basis having to deal with wave after wave of asylum seekers from south of the border and there are new rumours that the borders will be closed down completely. Turning back refugees? It sounds barbaric to your ears now because you've purposely forgotten how you were adamantly behind the push to cut off all refugee and asylum immigration to the USA, even before Gilead was born.

 

 _You made it just in time_ , she had said one unseasonably yet increasingly common sweltering afternoon in mid-summer. And you blinked slowly, not quite understanding her words. It makes better sense now.

 

Sometimes you try praying at night before bed like you used to. The words feel unfamiliar and you lack the heart behind them as you talk to _something_ you're not convinced is even listening. The neighbours next to you are arguing again and their angry cursing is the only reply you ever get.

 

Every time you return home from the food bank—yes, Serena Joy Waterford: food bank attendee—you fiddle with the key to your shitty apartment and glance down the hall. There is always somebody around, aimlessly wandering, fighting, banging on a door, crying, laughing. You don't know any of them and Marnie warned you not to engage for any reason.

 

Not because they're bad people, but because _you_ are.

 

She has kept that part of the warning silent and drenched in implication but it rings clearly every time she cuts her eyes at you.

 

It's the same reason they made you dye your hair and placed you in your own apartment instead of the required cramped, shared accommodations that other refugees encounter. Marnie says it's for your own safety because, you know, if people learn who you are, there will be riots—and casualties. She doesn't need to say it outright because it's clear enough that all the workers at the centre believe you would be murdered in your sleep by basically every single Gileadean refugee if they ever put two and two together. (And probably some Canadians too.) You'd published a book, after all. Your face had been on the news across the country after the attempted assassination. You were the poster girl for extreme reproductive legislation, violent riots, and insurrection. One day, somebody will remember all of that.

 

Despite your best efforts to encourage them, nobody has reached out to the American government and every time you are outside of the apartment building, you hope to run into that attractive American man from before, the one that offered you coconuts and treason.

 

Well, you've completed half of that deal. So where the fuck are your coconuts?

 

 

* * *

 The weather is crisp, with a sharp biting cold that cuts through your winter jacket every time the wind sweeps down the street. It's not a very warm coat, but, beggars literally cannot be choosers and until your refugee claim goes through and your social assistance begins, you're shit out of luck. It's the church donation box for you. _Sickening_.

 

Stuffing your hands into the pockets gives some sense of warmth but you know it won't last long enough for the bus to come. In one hand, the three-fingered one, you jangle a bit of change for transit. In the other pocket is your wallet with nothing inside except a few coupons and a small collection of bills—your allowance as it stands. You've become completely dependent on the charity of people you once wished to eradicate.

 

A cheap cafe across the road blazes a neon sign for $2 drip coffee but almost every spare dollar goes towards something you care about far more than a fleeting hit of caffeine: books. They're your drug of choice after being so long deprived of writing and you devour them faster everyday. (You have taken up another vice that eats away at your spare change as well: cigarettes.)

 

Marnie keeps promising to get you a library card but until your residence papers get finalized and you have some proper identification, free isn't possible. There's a thrift shop across the river that you know has a decent selection of reading material for good prices and it's not as if you have much else to do than ride the bus for hours on end.

 

The shop smells like musty clothes and old wood but it's warm and bright and there's an entire wall of used books just waiting to be picked over by you.

 

You have a well-worn copy of _Slaughterhouse Five_ in one hand and _The Giver_ in the other, both of them banned books in your school district once upon a time. There's blue crayon scribbled haphazardly all over the first page of _The Giver_ and various pages are dog-eared, a previous reader needing to remember passages. You'd never read either; you'd never even wanted to read either. If your father said no, that was just what you believed.

 

Before you've decided whether you'll take one or both, you hear a voice. It's familiar in a way that sends a pang of longing straight through your chest, wrapping tightly around your lungs. You see her before she looks up, instead wrangling her daughters down the aisle towards the children's books. She's impressing upon her eldest how important learning to read is despite a building tantrum about a toy. You already know there's a baby in the stroller, and you're pretty certain you know exactly what that baby will look like.

 

She's different.

 

Of course she's different, you chide yourself. Stripped of that blood red prison garb and puritanical white bonnet, she looks like that woman in the photo her husband shoved in Fred's face. Her blonde hair is loose and short again, curling bouncily above her shoulders and she's wearing various colours, greens and whites and browns. Maybe even a touch of make-up. Little things that had been taken away could be reclaimed here outside Gilead.

 

Mostly, she's free. She looks free. She _acts_ free. That's something you still haven't quite got the hang of. From the outside, it's almost like Gilead never happened to her. This could have been her home, born and bred in Toronto, and nobody would be the wiser.

 

No words seem to form in your mouth and your throat is dry, scratchy even. If you just slip back around the stacks, there's no way she'll even know you're here. But... Nicole. The baby gurgles and your chest grows heavy, and your three-fingered hand clenches around the books.

 

There's no possibility for you to think any longer about what to say or do, or not say and not do because her eyes fall onto your stoic figure before you have a chance. For a moment, clearly painted across her face, there's a glimmer that resembles fear—probably a relic of years of torture in your household, at your hand—but it passes and it reminds you of how jealous you've always been of her abilities to persevere through everything. Her mouth opens and closes and you can feel her daughter's eyes on you as well, attempting to make sense of the sudden change of temperature in the room. Appearances certainly were deceiving and Gilead has happened to her; it's still happening to her every waking moment. She just hides it better.

 

“Serena?”

 

In the many months since you've seen her, you'd forgotten how your name falls from her lips like soft fingertips sliding along your skin and it causes your breath to catch.

 

“Hi.” You almost roll your eyes at yourself and how bereft of language you feel. For a writer with her fists wrapped around books, it's pathetic. Then again, she's always made you feel pathetic. Her gaze glides down to the novels you're hanging onto and there's a smirk.

 

“Learning something?” It could be a smile that she's offering you, but you're not totally sure. It could just as easily be an insult.

 

You shrug, but don't put the books down. “Let's hope.” You let out a weak laugh; maybe it was a joke.

 

All she does is nod slowly, squinting at you, and no doubt taking in your second-hand clothes and lack of poise. You wish you could pull this woollen beanie down over your eyes and hide from her cutting stare, and that questioning, suspicious one Hannah's giving you as well. The silence lasts a little too long to be comfortable until June—it's always been June—breaks the lull with a shrug of her own and a question.

 

“So, you, um, went brunette, huh?” A fully-fingered hand gestures towards you.

 

Self-consciously, you touch your darkened hair and realise you haven't seen each other in _months_ , not since being separated just after hopping the Canadian border. It's like you're old school friends at a cocktail party decades later. There's so much history, but also so much distance now that it seems impossible to cross it without excruciating awkwardness. “Yeah, well, the refugee centre thought it would be best if I looked as little like myself as possible. For, you know...”

 

Oh, she _knows_. Better than anybody.

 

 _Coward_ , you hear it in her voice instead of your own, even if she's never said that exact word to your face.

 

Again, no verbal answer. She merely nods again, and maybe there's a hint of a smile. Wishful thinking.

 

“You look... great,” you try. It's like the small talk you'd always been a little terrible at but it's not a lie, not this time. She looks like a new person, glowing, _alive_. Something in your gut roils at the thought but you swallow hard.

 

She glances down at Hannah and then up again. “Thanks.” Her stilted responses aren't giving you much hope for this conversation going anywhere you want it to. You can't help it if nobody had ever written a self-help book for what to say when you run into the woman you kidnapped, raped, and stole a baby from, and then later, also used to fuck until both your legs turned to jelly. Especially not when those are the memories you still cling to late at night in your lonely apartment in your shitty slum—all of your circumstances fallout from you. It could all be traced back to you, every last repugnant, tortuous element.

 

You glance towards the stroller, craving just a glimpse of the baby you actually believed would be your daughter. If she catches you, she doesn't let on, instead changing the subject.

 

“So, where are you staying these days?”

 

Hannah whines wordlessly, high-pitched, and pulls on June's hand and you're reminded on her daughter's less than pleasant habits.

 

“Sherbourne.” Everybody knows what that means. There are no nice refugee accommodations on Sherbourne.

 

June is really terrible at withholding the near laugh that bubbles out. “G-Dump? They really put you there?” A genuine smile cracks over her lips. “I mean, wow, that sucks.” If this is the reaction June has to the news, you can't even imagine the sheer jubilation the rest of the refugees would have, especially that best friend of hers. “Really, Serena. Sucks.” You try to ignore the tiny snort of amusement.

 

You know she really wants to say, _Good. You deserve it._ You chew down on your bottom lip to stop yourself from blurting out something nasty you're bound to regret, because as much as you've all escaped that Hell, she still can get under your skin in such a particular way that it makes you want to tear at yourself until the itch disappears. Instead, you bite your tongue and clench you hand by your side.

 

“What about you?” you ask, proud of the way you've levelled your voice, making it cold almost, aloof. Like before when she'd do this to you.

 

“We're all in a house nearby, actually. A bunch of families from the States—Gilead. It's tight but nice; great place. Hannah loves it, don't you?” June grins down at her daughter who has found some sort of entertainment in a Transformer missing an arm.

 

You'd heard about those lucky people: the ones with babies and young children that get nicer homes in more middle-class neighbourhoods, without crackheads at their doorstep and beggars outside the local 7-11. And in Toronto nonetheless. Marnie had told you they move most established refugee groups out of the city to more family-friendly locales. (The undesirable singles like you get inner-city places like G-Dump).

 

Canada is a _huge_ country, you've learned, with all sorts of places and wide swathes of unused land to corral refugees. Cities where it's winter almost 10 months of the year, nearly-abandoned towns so far north that they have midnight sun, and all sorts of fly-over states of their own where a refugee family can live on a farm, in a barn probably with 12 other families. Like factory farming a crisis response.

 

You can't really blame the Canadian government. You can tell by the city you're in that they're struggling to maintain even their basic infrastructure with the burden of millions of new drains on the system, even with their own massive population decline due to climate change and the very same birth rate crisis that hit their neighbours. There's word about allowing Gilead expats to work again, like the before when work permits were something refugees could easily apply for, back before there weren't suddenly thousands of you vying for the same jobs as resident Canadians. Maybe June is going to be one of those lucky ones?

 

“That sounds nice.” You don't mean for your voice to escape so wistfully but you can't help yourself.

 

This is the part of the conversation where usually an invitation is extended, although not necessarily sincerely. June has never been one to follow conventions and she stares at you, her blue eyes hard but curious.

 

“We should grab a coffee sometime.” That's her alternative. It's something safer, familiar, and vague enough that you probably will never take her up on it. It's not like you even have a phone yet to keep in contact. June is in such a better place; she's had a head-start with her husband and best friend already established here.

 

Nicole sneezes in the pram, sounding more kitten than human, and you remember what this is really about. There's a cafe two doors down.

 

“How about now?”

 

Your suggestion seems to catch her off-guard. (Finally.) If there was ever a time you actually knew what she could be thinking, it's now. Every excuse is flowing like the blood through her veins and you wonder which one she'll come up with. Probably something about her husband, and the baby. That's the easy escape. Her head cocks to the side, eyes narrowing at you a bit.

 

“Okay. Sure. Why not?”

 

Power see-saws between you and her as it always has, with one of you grabbing it only to have it bounced away two seconds later.

 

You get a thrill out of it, in all honesty and you realize suddenly how much you've missed it. Your heartbeat races in anticipation as you let out a tight, close-lipped smile in return.

 

For a second, you think about the limited funds in your wallet and how you really need the pair of gloves in your basket. You can't get both books, the gloves, a coffee, and a bus ride home again. You look down at the books in your hand and think for a moment: you know nothing about either.

 

“Get the Vonnegut.” Her voice is soft, but certain as she brushes close to you, and your eyes catch for a moment too long before Hannah tugs her away.

 

Tossing the novel into the basket, you follow her down the aisle towards the cashiers in their ugly red vests. _Red_. There's so much about the world that has been tainted. You can't even enjoy a simple colour any longer. _The true colour of life is the colour of the body, the colour of the covered red._

 

From over her shoulder, you can see Nicole's chubby face, sucking on the pacifier. You can't believe how much older she looks.

 

As you reach the end of the line and wait your turn, June leans in, her nearness setting you on fire. “You can borrow Hannah's copy of _The Giver_.”

 

Something in you cracks.

 

 

* * *

 Sitting in a coffee shop shouldn't be such a disconcerting, alien feeling. You'd done it plenty of times in the past, working on your novel while sipping a non-fat, pumpkin spice soy latte with extra foam, or meeting with classmates for a university assignment. Any number of now trivial reasons. But you can't even remember the last time you'd even inhaled that slightly burnt, roasted bean scent, had it cling to your clothes, or listened to the never-ending violent froth of a cappuccino machine. You'd only had one coffee since coming to Canada, and that was from the refugee centre's day-old free offering in Marnie's bullpen.

 

There's no mistaking you're in Canada with the wooden canoe on the wall and the dim, rustic cabin feeling of the cafe. It's warm here at the window, in a plush armchair, and outside a flurry wraps snowflakes all around the sidewalk. Snow hasn't looked this beautiful to you in many years. There's something to be said about the feeling of safety, the feeling that what's outside can't hurt you anymore. At least, until it's time to catch the streetcar across the valley.

 

Hannah is sprawled out belly-down on the floor, scribbling in her new colouring book with a pack of markers borrowed from the cafe. Beside her is a half-eaten cookie with rainbow sprinkles and way too much sugar in it. There is a simple sentence accompanying the cartoon animals at the bottom of every page and June insists Hannah read them aloud before colouring. Every second here seems like blasphemy even still and your skin prickles with the unfamiliarity. Some small voice cries out for you to repent, to run. To return. Instead, you push out a tight-lipped smile at the scene, reminding yourself that it isn't evil, it's normal.

 

On her other side, June gently rocks the pram as Nicole gurgles and fiddles with a set of giant plastic teething keys. You can see her fully and mostly June waits for your response when she poses a question and you take too long to reply because you're fixated on the baby.

 

 _Almost_ , a voice snickers.

 

“Serena.” Her patience can only last so long and your covetous gaze of her child is probably a bit disturbing considering your predilection for kidnapping.

 

Nodding absently, you take hold of the hot mug and sip it slowly, tearing your eyes from Nicole and back to June.

 

“Do you want to hold her?”

 

The offer is jarring, and you think you can literally feel your blood pressure spike. “Yes.” It's a tiny voice that escapes your lips and June blinks slowly, assessing how dangerous this move really is. But the soft, mid-2000s indie rock filtering through the speakers seems to assure her that you're not in a horror film, but rather something more like a family-friendly ABC Spark or Lifetime drama—when American TV studios still existed.

 

Before you know it, Nicole is placed in your arms and June is hovering over you, like she doesn't quite trust you yet, even after all you'd done together. You can feel the small breaths of the baby in your arms and the heat of June's body, the way she's so close that a lock of her short blonde hair lightly tickles your cheek. There's some niggling memory of a similar moment, years ago in Gilead when the roles were reversed. And it wasn't your baby then either. (It was Naomi's. Or Janine's. _Somebody_ 's.)

 

“She's so beautiful,” you murmur, running your fingertip across a plump cheek and feeling the smile break out across your lips. That's likely the first time since you were separated. You press your nose to her forehead, inhaling that baby smell slowly, savouring the little miracles you're still given despite your alleged apostasy.  

 

The moment breaks when Hannah's voice rings out, her gaze fixed on you both. “I remember!”

 

You and June look to her, still splayed over the hard floor. She's squinting hard at you, chewing on the end of a green marker which doubtless other children have done the same to. Those words often signalled danger, or at the very least caution. Remembering anything of Gilead was never good.

 

“You kissed my mommy, like daddies do.” She's triumphant in her assertion, as if this entire time she's been working out why you seem so familiar. God, you _hate_ when children do this; it doesn't matter if June's child or not.

 

Between the hot red rush to your cheeks and the way horror bubbles up in the back of your throat, you think you might be about to throw up. You quickly scan around to the other coffee shop patrons in hearing distance and only one glances your way, but in true Canadian fashion, looks away quickly, apologetically. You catch the tiny smirk all the same.

 

“Um, yeah. She did,” June says, her voice wavering just a little as she placates her daughter and moves away, back to her own seat. Whatever gentle sense of connection and family you just experienced is gone in seconds but Nicole is still cradled carefully in your arms. “Good memory, Banana.”

 

Of all the things for the child to remember about you, it had to be _that_ moment, mere minutes before you all made a mad rush for the safety of the Canadian coast and the waiting handcuffs of the RCMP and military. Those few seconds of frenzy, terror, and rapture. It wasn't the way you liberated her from that children's camp, nor the way you shoved her to the floor of a stolen Guardian vehicle and made her stay down there for almost an hour. Not even the way she lay nestled for warmth and protection between you and June on those long cold nights, hiding in abandoned houses or broken down cars.

 

“Your hair is dark like mine now,” she states, oblivious to any discomfort you are feeling. Or that she said anything terrifying at all. (Because it's not, not to her. She has none of that fear. Gilead had never truly sunk its hooks into her.) “Why?”

 

June shifts, probably uncomfortable because how can she explain to a child the extent of why you've had to change your hair? _Well, Mommy's friend was responsible for blowing up America and putting everybody in a fascist theocracy from Hell. It's why you don't have a home anymore, why both Mommy and her friend are deemed stateless, why you live in a shitty house in a country that isn't yours, in near poverty under constant fear of deportation back to a society that literally wants to rape and then kill you._

 

That's not the sort of thing that fits nicely at the bottom of a colouring book page.

 

“I liked your hair better,” you say, offering a small smile and praying it will be enough to convince the girl to drop it. Hannah grins and touches her own dark curls, looking proud of herself. June gazes over at you, her blue eyes tinged with possible gratitude, but there's something else lurking under there too that you can't quite put your finger on.

 

“Really?”

 

“You bet.”

 

Hannah giggles vacantly, picking up a purple marker from the pile and smiles down at her colouring page. You breathe in Nicole's baby powder scent as June watches you like a predatory hawk.

 

 

* * *

 Some of the refugee centre's highly-trained yet poorly-compensated psychologists would toss around words like “depressive symptoms”, “somatic complaint”, “post-traumatic stress”, “demoralization” and “alienation” in whispers to each other, or even to your face. A whole host of warning bells and labels that compound your already obvious failings and anxieties. Sometimes you feel like a specimen in a Petri dish, like some sort of freak show for all the morally superior Godless mobs to look down upon, to marvel at your simplicity and disgusting nature.

 

 _\- How much is Miss Gilead suffering today?_ (A lot.) _We're glad._

 

 _\- How does an architect of women's torture, including her own, sleep at night?_ (She doesn't. Not really.) _Great news._

 

 _\- Why isn't she dead yet?_ (That's a good question.) _Too bad._

 

When your back aches, or a migraine slices through your head making your vision swim with auras and nausea, or your wrist cracks, or you lose your grasp on your hot mug of tea because your phantom fingers trick your mind into believing you really have a whole hand still, you picture them all cheering.

 

 _It's karma_ , they claim. _You deserve it_.

 

You resist crying, as long as you possibly can because those voices would mock that too. _You brought it on yourself, after all_ , they'd say if you allowed them to speak. _If this is the worst that's happened to you, you've been lucky_.

 

Maybe you have, but that doesn't make it feel any less miserable.

 

_What about the others?_

 

The ones that didn't make it. The ones that hung on the Wall until the crows picked out their guts. The ones that were beaten and raped and shoved into black vans. The ones that rotted from radiation poisoning, while still alive. The ones shot at point blank range for singing outside a church. The ones thrown off diving boards and drowned in front of crowds for loving each other. The ones on the front lines with guns and mortars, the sons of Marthas and Econowives and heretics. The ones in the Red Centers around the country, the daughters of Marthas and Econowives and heretics. The children of other women were dropping like flies around you when all you could think about was getting a child of your own.

 

So, when that spilled tea burns your hand into an angry red blister, you can hear the voices. Every time you hover over the toilet bowl and retch up your lunch or dinner, you can hear the voices. When a neighbour stares at you just a little too long in the elevator, you can hear them. They're especially loud in the silence, as you sit on your secondhand IKEA double-bed trying to concentrate on whatever new book is clasped in your hand. They're relentless and you're completely alone with them, to fight or succumb.

 

The sheer boredom and monotony of life in Toronto as a refugee is really the root of your problems, in your only slightly qualified opinion. With more to do, more to look forward to, maybe you'd have less time to ruminate. Less time to get tangled in memories and pervasive, infected thoughts. You'd have less ability to slip into guilt. Your defences would be stronger against the onslaught of nightly terrors.

 

Sure, it's just that simple.

 

(You may know the reality but it's nicer to live in your simplistic delusions.)

 

You know there are positives to this life. You have a new appreciation for the weight of a book in your hand, for the creak of paper as you turn a page, the smoothness of a pen between your fingers, the smell of fresh ink from cheap pens smeared across paper, and the dry ache of your eyes when you've stayed awake too long, absorbed in the words in front of you. However, you can easily do without the constant diet of tinned foods and stale cereal from the food bank, or the loud neighbours and having to almost skulk around the city to avoid retaliation from angry mobs. You can do without the penny pinching and reliance on the almost resentful charity of strangers.

 

It's easy to get lost in all that has gone wrong, and the hopelessness of this never-ending cycle. But sometimes there are blips of light in the back of your mind when you picture living in a house, even a tiny bungalow in the suburbs, and writing again, for a living. You have your daughter there with you, and a companion. (You see _Fred_ occasionally in these daydreams, even despite it all and you do hate yourself a little for that. Meanwhile, you actively refuse to see June. Just the idea of her makes you tremble too much, makes you feel too vulnerable in your own skin.)

 

If that's all that's keeping you tethered to this grim reality, so be it. A house, some books, and a daughter to love. Simple things.

 

And then there was that meeting.

 

Random chance had a way of unnerving you in ways it shouldn't, not when it's something that likely wouldn't be seen as an upsetting occurrence by anybody else. It wasn't just Nicole and inhaling her scent, touching her soft baby skin, cradling her in your arms where she just felt right and then having her taken away again. It wasn't just Hannah's unfortunate outburst of inappropriate memories you'd locked away somewhere safe and forgotten. It wasn't just the way your entire body thrummed insistently every moment that June got just that little bit closer to you, or the way her eyes flitted over your face, or the way you caught her, just that once, glancing at your mouth before darting her gaze elsewhere. It certainly wasn't the way you could read the sadness in her, in places where it shouldn't be.

 

Usually, it's just the way life has of reminding you of the things you want but can't have. Not anymore. It's the way things (people) have slipped away from you somewhere along the way, and you're suddenly faced with their presence again, forcing you to consider their absence even more.

 

Sometimes you wake up in the darkness, quietly but strangled and scared, your heart racing and cold sweat across your skin, with your arms feeling strangely empty. You've never been a cuddler; you were never one of those children who hung onto a stuffed animal far past the appropriate age. You never took Fred into your arms on long winter nights; you slept facing away from him always—until you no longer were even allowed to share a bed. But the chilly nights in the shitty G-Dump apartment leave you feeling anxious, and your bed barren, and you find your arms hugging a pillow instead of your daughter. (Her daughter.)

 

There's very little comfort in that.

 

But at least you're no longer lying awake in the dead of night, your hands clenched into fists, an insistent throb between your legs and the ghost of her musky taste on your lips.

 

 

* * *

 It's raining that cloying and chilling autumn sort of rain that soaks through to your bones no matter what you're wearing. The streets are anything but deserted of course because Toronto, this area anyway, is never like that, no matter what the weather. Junkies always need a fix. Prostitutes always need a john. And the rest of your neighbours, all the drunks and bums and welfare moms and refugees like you, they always have somewhere to be and something to do. There's a droning hustle constantly. You wonder if maybe they're actually the most proactive and productive members of this society, just not in the way that works with the system as it is.

 

_Come over sometime. Come see Nicole._

 

A phone number scrawled on a napkin, just like old times. Like before cellphones. You had to use your meagre savings to buy the cheapest pay-as-you-go phone you could find just to call her back and arrange anything, and that had meant the sacrifice of books, an umbrella, and a that new (used) saucepan you'd had your eye on at the thrift store.

 

That's why you're out in the rain like this instead of huddling under a well-worn fleece blanket with Vonnegut in one hand and lukewarm tea in the other.

 

By the time you're at her doorstep, one bus and one streetcar ride later, you're fairly sure you've caught a cold. Probably not the best shape to visit a baby in, but you ring the doorbell anyway because desire often overwhelms your common sense.

 

You're not sure what you expected to feel when the door opens, but it's certainly not the tiny heart attack that brings a weakness to your limbs. This is June, as she was before you knew her. She's there, Nicole in her arms as she wrestles the red door open quickly rushing you into the tiny vestibule, packed with too many pairs of boots and jackets. It's like some sort of smelly youth hostel.

 

Or, just a small inner-city home full of children.

 

She's already rambling about something involving naps and lunch, but you're counting the number of tiny pairs of shoes and small mittens and miniature snowpants. There are many adult belongings as well, but they're of far less interest to you, even the rather large mens snowboots. Kicking off your second-hand boots and shrugging out of your coat, you follow her carefully stepping over discarded toys. Everything smells like baby powder, peanut butter, and mud.

 

Your chest aches with something intangible. It triggers a warming sensation in your eyes and you blink rapidly to clear the mist.

 

Juggling the baby in her arms, she sweeps aside some books from the sofa and points at it, offering you a seat. Little does she realize, you'd sit on a bed of rusty nails if it meant the chance to hold Nicole again.

 

“Do you mind?” she asks, distracted by something elsewhere. Almost without much thought, she places Nicole in your waiting arms and disappears upstairs.

 

It's the first time you've been alone with your daughter since you'd given her up to a strange chain of rebels. She coos, a gurgle escaping with a few bubbles. There's nothing that you've ever wanted more than this. She's free to grow up and read, write, learn, fight, cry, fall in love with whomever she wants. And she's here, her soft weight bouncing up and down just enough to calm her as you whisper to her, anything that comes to mind: how much you've missed her, how empty your apartment feels, how you hope she'll have everything she ever wants, how thankful you are to God for keeping her safe, why it took you so long to see her again, the way your heart feels like it can never let her go, how you miss her mother. That last one, it sort of sneaked out without much thought at all but it was there all the same. Nicole blows more spit bubbles, a giggle erupting as you make a face at your own admission.

 

You kiss her forehead, inhaling deeply and she grabs a fistful of your hair. It hurts as you pull back but it's something from her. Something you'd not had before. You have already missed so much of her short life and what is banal to others is brand new to you. Is she crawling? Has she said “Mama” yet? What about food? Has she met every developmental milestone? Is she healthy? What about happy?

 

The front door is not really that far away. If June is near, you can't hear her, not even a rustle. Nobody else appears to be home, despite all the outerwear draped over hooks and furniture, there's not a single hint of footsteps anywhere. In an old house like this, they would echo. No murmur of voices in another room. No muffled music or TV from a bedroom two storeys above. Not even the creak of a bedroom door.

 

It wouldn't take long to pull on your boots, wrap Nicole in a blanket, and tiptoe out the door with her. You could be on the streetcar before June even realizes you're gone. You bite down on your bottom lip, glancing down at the baby in your arms and then back to the front hallway.

 

It's not as if she needs to be breastfed any longer.

 

A thumb sneaks out to trace the blonde hairline, full of baby fuzz. God, it would be so _easy_.

 

Your fingers twitch.

 

Nicole babbles quietly at you and for some reason you're struck at how much she looks like her mother (her real mother). There's not much of Nick in her at all, not that you can see anyway. But then again, for months June was all you could see, whether it was in reality, daydreams, or nightmares. She's imprinted in your mind forever like when you stare too long at a TV screen and every time you close your eyes, it still flickers there.

 

Maybe you've grown, or maybe you're just too tired, but you remain seated on the lumpy sofa with smeared chocolate on the arm. Nicole won't be sleeping in your hand-me-down double bed tonight, nor ever. As much as you'd like to believe—and part of you may still—that Nicole is partly yours, the hard facts are that she belongs here in this modest semi-detached house surrounded by a family you can never give.

 

You only have cockroaches and drafty windows.

 

The couch dips with June's weight as she settles next you, apologetically rambling about naptime and Hannah and Oliver, whoever that is. Your shoulder bumps against hers as she leans in to brush her fingertips across Nicole's cheek.

 

There's a pounding in your chest and a flush sweeping through your body as you drink in the warmth of her next to you and the baby daughter in your arms. It may not be your dream, it may be the antithesis of all your hard-learned beliefs, but it feels like family all the same. You want to stay like this for as long as possible.

 

After a long minute you realize you're watching June even more closely than Nicole and you force yourself to face the baby instead, wrangling your thoughts to where they should be. Thoughts of the taste of June's soft skin should not be on your mind; the memories of her lips on yours should not be the focus of your attention. These thoughts are not oppressive, more akin to the first light snowfall of the year: gentle, light, but covering everything. Even so, they're unwelcome and unnecessary at this moment when you should be thinking only of the precious young life in your hands.

 

“You should come over more.”

 

June's words slip out, almost an off-handed comment, like she hadn't thought first. She forces out a tight smile and shrugs, shifting back to put more distance between your bodies. “It'd be nice for Nicole.”

 

“Yeah,” you say, unsure of what else you can add because yes, you'd _really_ like to be here more often. Just like this.

 

The house seems too quiet suddenly. Even the baby in your arms has settled, her eyelids growing heavy and her breathing deeper. The air prickles around you.

 

When you look over to June, she's studying you again, unabashedly, like you're a puzzle she hasn't quite worked out yet. And underneath that facade, there's something darker, a little more wounded. You'd rather not ask what it is. 


	4. frost forms an edge for every margin

It may be approaching the tenth time you've sat in this living room, but it's Nicole's first birthday and it's also the first time June's best friend and familiar haunting face from your Canada trip, Moira, has seen you at their house. She is nothing short of livid to be sharing the same air as you. _Not Ruby, asshole,_  a memory screams at you from its repressed depths. She hasn't changed at all, nor has the sheer hatred in her eyes. 

After a few nasty insults you didn't even know existed hurled your way, June had pulled her into the other room but there was very little point; you can hear and see them both clearly. You thought at first it was just shock, but no, Moira's incensed not only at you being alive, but moreso you tainting the sanctity of their living room with the _rancid stench of misogynistic fascism_ , as she puts it. Rather apt, and you grudgingly appreciate her way with words. 

“Do you have any fucking idea what that evil bitch has done?” Moira screams as if June isn't the most well-acquainted with your most immoral of tendencies. 

June knows more about you than perhaps anybody else on the damn planet. Yes, more than Fred because there's a part of you he's never seen, because you hadn't even known it existed until that first time you pressed your lips to hers, the taste of your own tears still on your tongue. She's seen through you, listened to your pain, smelled your fear, touched your wounds, absorbed your wrath, and tasted your unbridled lust. 

“I don't want her here.” She marches defiantly back into the living room where you're waiting patiently for the storm to pass and points a sharp finger right at you. 

Following on her heels, June sighs. “Moira—” 

“No, never again. Okay? Never.” 

“Moira—” 

“Does Luke know?” There's silence for a long moment. “Oh my God. You're insane, you know that right? If you don't tell him—.” 

“You'll what?” 

Moira snaps her mouth closed, and her lips form a grim line and there's a flash of warning in her eyes that you can see across the room but her signals do nothing for June. Instead, she turns back and walks towards the sofa, rolling her eyes when Moira can't see. It's nice to know that she's not just stubborn and defiant towards you, but also her best and most beloved friends. You suppose it's just her nature to _resist_ , even as Moira follows her, her feet heavy and angry. They pause, staring each other down in silence, playing some game of chicken until Moira breaks first by turning to you instead. 

“There's a special place in Hell for women like you,” she spits and you'd be lying if you said you can't feel the sting like one of Fred's belt buckles against your skin. 

Although you don't say it out loud, you are pretty sure that special place she speaks of is getting over-crowded by now by blue-shrouded women. When you fail to respond, Moira scoffs loudly, looking back at her best friend. 

“You know what? Fuck you both,” she laughs, but nothing is funny about any of this. “Seriously, fuck both of you.” She shrugs, defeated and stomps from the room. You can hear the footfalls all the way up the stairs, along the hall, and punctuated by the slamming of a door. 

June's face twitches, lost in thought momentarily until she sighs and moves back over to the sofa with the popcorn, glistening in its artificial butter topping. You can smell the sweetness of her body lotion, that's how close she is. There's a crunching in your ear but you stay silent. June stares at the TV and puts her hand back in the bowl again for a second handful but pauses, sighs again, longer this time. 

“She'll get over it.” Her voice is distant, and uncertain. “Maybe.” 

You think about Moira's reaction and then what will happen with June's husband, and the other ex-Handmaid, Emily. A dark cloud seems to rumble ominously in the distance. It's not very reassuring.

 

 

* * *

 “Serena.” 

June's voice is level, with carefully curated syllables. 

It's been months since you first sat with her in the coffeeshop. You're still struggling, still waiting for paperwork to go through, always just _waiting_. The only thing that's really changed is how you've let your hair fade back to natural blonde. Marnie grimaces every time she sees you now, like she's tasting something particularly sour. 

This cafe is closer to her house and cheaper for you as well. That's a bit new too, this thing with June. It moves like an old river, rolling lethargically forwards, sometimes stalling around bends. The complete opposite of the raging St. Lawrence you crossed together. Tom Sawyer would be so jealous. 

Nicole pinches your arm as she attempts to squirm out of your grasp but you can't have her scooting around on the dirty floor of the cafe then shoving her fingers into her mouth. Who knows what diseases lurk between floorboards. Maybe it will bruise. As the skin aches just a little, you realise she certainly has enough power in her fingers now. Sometimes you believe this child has more strength already than you've ever had. 

Fussing over Nicole is easier than facing her mother. 

“Serena.” The edge is even more pronounced now and there's something about the way your name drops from her lips that makes your skin crawl. 

“Hmm?” 

June shifts, fiddling with a napkin corner. You can feel her eyes trained on you but there's a passive resistance in refusing to engage, of the sort she taught you with her petty defiances. 

“You know, I think,” she begins, more like she's asking permission but you know her better than that. “It's best to put Gilead behind us.” Your heart thumps faster, knowing what's coming next. “Everything, you know? Everything that happened there is probably best to just... get forgotten.” 

While she may have been completely vague, you understand quite clearly what she's trying to say. This is not about your abuses, about the torture and rape, about your attitude or her recalcitrance. It's not even about the crimes you've probably both committed.   

There's nothing you can do but acquiesce, as much as it feels as if someone is ruthlessly tearing at your lungs with a dull knife. You swallow noticeably, feeling the lump in your throat. 

With a small nod, you agree. “Of course.”

 

 

* * *

 Settlement Services has barred you from attending any sort of refugee support groups or participating in any newcomer events. They hadn't even bothered to mince words, and much like when Marnie told you to dye your hair and live alone, it wasn't necessarily for your best interest so much as preventing the complete chaos that would inevitably follow you around. 

Of course, it helps to have you alive in order to hold somebody accountable for the rise and perpetuation of Gilead. Seeing as you're the first defector of any serious rank and influence, you're something of a war criminal celebrity. Although they've never even admitted to having any knowledge of your involvement in bombing D.C., you still have no doubt Canada is only holding you long enough to determine whether or not to extradite you to the scattered pieces of America that still exist. If the U.S. is going to give you the death penalty, they won't send you away. But then again, that was an agreement made before Gilead and its stinking rot moved in next door. Canada probably wants to be as free of the poison you bring as quickly as possible. 

In those early days after the crossing, the RCMP had ripped you away from June and Hannah, and put you into an adult detention centre for new asylum seekers. Even then, they'd been careful not to integrate you with the entire refugee population, just a select few female bunkmates for your particular cage, other Wives probably. Conversation was carefully rationed and guarded like a coven of paranoid squirrels hoarding nuts for winter, and you never did learn what your cagemates' stories had been but you somehow suspect they were people like you: criminals that the general population would murder if given the opportunity. 

40 days and 40 nights. Give or take. Every day, the same routine of sitting, eating bland, low-grade chow better suited to large farm animals than human beings, maybe reading a worn book, and counting the minutes until lights out again. You'd be lucky to get an hour outside every couple days. Lights on. Lights off. 

But loneliness is what you remember most clearly, and what cut to your bones most effectively even after years of self-imposed emotional isolation in Gilead. The bare concrete floors were cold under your feet, the fluorescent lights cast depressing shades of green and grey. But most of all, the air was soaked with misery, disappointment, and every day you felt it in your blood. You'd wake on a rigid cot with a backache, a headache, joint ache, and stomach ache. Each day would be spent just trying to ignore every bruise, every bit of discomfort and pain, and hoping beyond reason that perhaps it would be time to be placed in an actual home, in a city, with freedom. 

Nobody spoke much to you, nor you to them. 

Your IRB hearing had been quick, perfunctory really, like almost every single case from Gilead. 

A judge read your name aloud, her voice confident and clear. There were no murmurs amongst the other people in the room, as if no one was aware of your actual role. After all, you are merely a Wife, a female and therefore a victim, forced into a role instead of it being your free choice. A Wife is sufficient enough for asylum compassion, and a wife of a high Commander gives you even more protection. You'd watched others—some from your cage—taken to detention hearings instead, and you wondered how you'd managed to slip out of that noose yet again. 

Maybe, in all the shadows and ignorance of Gilead's inner workings, the Canadians honestly believe you to be innocent. 

_Let no one seek his own good, but the good of his neighbour_. 

Well, fuck. You may have changed but not that much. If it means avoiding an overcrowded refugee detention centre, you'll share a cup with both God and demons.  _For why is my liberty judged of another man's conscience?_

All they know is that a Wife is a hated figure in Gilead by those who are of lower class. _Hated_. 

A rep from the Refugee Protection Board had taken you then, along with a tired crowd of other bedraggled, hungry wanderers to a bus, then another bus, then to a facility, nicer than the temporary refugee camps, but still retaining the slight ominous ambience of a prison. 

Maybe the tales spun by the underground factions in Gilead were more wishful thinking than legitimate fact because they had made it seem like getting over that border was the only difficult step. Then the Canadian government found everybody houses and jobs and that was that. 

You can still remember the images of Calais Jungle, the Burmese border, or the US/Mexico border back when TV was a thing, and you feel like Canada is not far from becoming like that, with sprawling wastelands of tents and makeshift huts, packed full of starving and sick Gileadean refugees desperate for anything other than where they came from. Even if it's a tent city in the middle of January in Canada.

 

 

* * *

 Sometimes now, it's just a smell. A musty scent caught on some chilly city breeze, a wafting of one of the neighbours sitting on their identical rundown balcony, wind whipping down the barren streets as you dodge the homeless beggars huddled above the subway grate. Maybe it's even just your imagination. 

It sweeps back. Chills. Anxiety. Racing heartbeat. Terror. Nausea. A subtle but pervasive sense that the world is spinning out of control. Pure, unadulterated _dread_. 

Just the mere suggestion of the smell of the muddy riverbank, or those cages, or the damp mattress in the refugee centre, brings with it the amalgamation of sadness so deep in your body that the only way to be free of it is to bleed yourself dry, _for the life of a creature is in the blood_. Whatever miserable creature dwells under your flesh burrows deeper every day.

 _It is the blood that maketh an atonement for the soul._

You can never bring yourself to do it, not really. The paring knife hovers but never lands. The scars across your back had drained so much of you already and given no sense of relief even then why would that change?

You visit Nicole and it fades temporarily. Her blue eyes are clear, adoring and her cries and giggles clog up your chest with want and comfort. But sometimes you look at June and it feels like _deja vu_ , like a flashback to the night pulling Hannah through ice water into Canada. As RCMP officers yanked you away, you can still see the look June gave you. There was no fear. You don't believe it was only in your imagination, either then or now. 

You'd seen it before.

You know what it means. 

It was a momentary sneer almost, a smug look that screamed at you in the dusk: 

_Fuck you, Mrs. Waterford_. 

Fred was right all along: deep down, and despite all the visits and hours spent in her company, she hates you just as much.

 

 

* * *

 In Gilead, most days you'd felt like a ghost, floating aimlessly through routine tasks and passing time as best you could. Here, it's very possible you are a ghost. 

When you visit Nicole (she never visits at your apartment), June is the only adult to speak to you. You've met them all, in the loosest sense of the word. There's Moira, Erin, Luke—June's husband, Emily and her wife, plus the three children. You never see much of Emily who apparently is in and out of CAMH in-patient care, and your face only makes things worse for her. Even Hannah is hesitant, as if picking up on the emotions in the house every time you're around. You helped save her life and she still runs into the other room. The others ignore you entirely, as if you don't exist, as if you're nobody. Nothing. 

Moira goes out of her way to do it as much as possible, even walking into the bathroom if you're using it, for make-believe reasons like pretending she forgot something (but of course she never says a word to you), just to violate any sense of privacy you may have. And it really does feel intensely _violating_. You'd never realized it before, how June must have felt every time you or Aunt Lydia insisted on accompanying her during these personal moments, never giving her any opportunity to feel safety or peace. 

You'd tried resisting, or speaking out against it, but there's a lack of acknowledgement on Moira's part. Your words are no more than the buzz of a fly in another room. 

Further, in the kitchen, if you're helping yourself to a glass of water, she'll breeze in and just take the glass from in front of you. Sometimes she'll use it herself, sometimes she'll just dump it into the sink with the other dirty dishes. God forbid you try to eat anything. 

June never says anything about this behaviour. Not to you, and especially not to them. 

She shrinks away from you occasionally and you tell yourself that's a learned response, the remnants of an old habit she'd developed in Gilead. The only one to treat you like a normal human being is Nicole but you wonder how long that is going to last for. She learns too quickly.


	5. a shadow of ice exchanges the color of light

Your visits to Leslieville begin to dwindle slowly after Christmas, not of your own choosing. If you had your way, you'd be there daily, sleeping over to bathe Nicole at night, waking up to feed and dress her. However, the longer you had lingered in their house, the more unwelcome it became, to the point that as much as you love Nicole, the constant bombardment by everyone else and June's targeted ignorance and dismissal of their behaviour, you got the very unsubtle hint.

And maybe you're a little bit spoiled too. You're tired of the discomfort and the pain and the underlying resentment seeping out from every face you see. You deliberately ignore the fact you'd made all their lives a hundred times worse than yours has ever been.

Maybe it's better if Nicole just starts fresh here, no reminders of Gilead at all. She has a mother, a father, a sister, and a house full of people to love and care for her. It's more than you can offer, you know, looking around this shitty space and contemplating the stain in the ceiling where the tenant above had burst a pipe.

And quite frankly, if that's the case, you'd rather just not deal with any of those people.

(Maybe that's selfish. Maybe that makes you a terrible mother. You honestly don't care anymore because, frankly, you're exhausted by the act of merely existing alongside them now.)

You'd really rather just lie in bed until late afternoon anyway and wait for the bright daylight to coast into something less glaring and less illuminating. It's easier this way, in shades of dull blues and greys. And cutting out those unnecessary TTC rides saves you the meagre welfare allowance you're given for more important things. Like _nothing_.

The next door neighbours are yelling again, but it's muffled enough that you can't actually tell what it's about this time. Elsewhere, someone is listening to some irritating deep music with bone-shattering bass that makes the tea in your cup vibrate like in one of those _Jurassic Park_ movies from your childhood. You fucking hate this place so much, unsure if it's the apartment, this unfamiliar city, Canada, or just the burden of being conscious and deprived of everything you knew, and everything you want. Occasionally, you'll stand on the balcony, absently staring down at the pavement and shoddily manicured lawn below, people scattered like insects everywhere. It'd be a long fall, but not necessarily fatal.

The days are becoming slightly longer at least, dragging the hints of pink and orange daylight just that little bit more into the twilight, stealing the night back. Two months ago, it would be pitch black by now but the sun is only beginning to set. Dark clouds swell in the distance, casting that eerie yellow glow of gentle sunlight contrasted to the blackness beyond. In Indiana, as a child, you remember the days on the porch waiting for the thunder, treasuring the storm light, such shining golds against dark blues. You'd recited your vows to Fred in that same light of late November, trembling; he'd whispered that it was good luck, that it meant fertility. Now, on the horizon rests a sprawling purple bruise against the backdrop of pale greys and greens, and your once-broken wrist aches again. Rain is coming. Stepping away from the plate-glass window and back into your den feels like sinking, crawling into the space between existence and suspended animation. You'd always found that a particularly fascinating concept, the mere suspension of life. How many years has it been now?

The third-hand laptop you had traded your wedding ring for a while back drones on with some streamed video. It's really just to give you a false sense of company as you curl up on the sofa with your far more interesting library book, trying to ignore the way the building grey of the storm clings to you.

 

It happens sometimes that a stranger will bang on your door. The first time it happened you'd almost jumped right out of your skin, your heart beating wildly, and your skin growing icy cold almost immediately. Visions of Guardians and Fred's angry eyes, and fists, and belt, all swarmed your mind. Without thinking, you'd crouched down on the floor beside the sofa, too terrified to run to the bedroom, not that your muscles seemed to be able to move much at all. The voice on the other side was male, but not angry. He called out another woman's name.

Even so, it took at least half an hour for your hands to steady again and your breathing to slow.

Each time after, it wasn't as bad, each time became gradually less of a shock than the previous.

When it happens again, you still startle. The knock isn't heavy, like so many other times. Normally you don't even move from wherever you are but this time, something draws you towards the wooden door with 4 different locks on it. (Two of those were your own addition, after that first mistaken visitor.)

Blonde hair greets your eyes through the distorted peep hole. The wood is cool where you brace your hands against the door, taking several deep breaths and willing your ears to stop ringing. Another soft knock makes you jump back, and almost without conscious thought, your fingers work the locks one at a time in methodical succession.

“Hi,” is all she says, standing at the threshold of a world she's never seen, one you've never allowed her to see. Suddenly your only thoughts are about the state of your messy hair, dirty, tied up in a loose ponytail, and the fact you're already ( _still_ ) in your ugly panda pyjama bottoms that had been on clearance at the discount department store that took over an old Wal-Mart, and a ratty sweatshirt from the thrift shop. It reads _Some like it hot! Love, Texas_ , with a cartoon of a pepper wearing sunglasses and a bikini, complete with little pepper breasts. It's repulsive. But, it was the warmest and softest and cleanest one on the rack. And certainly nobody at the laundromat was going to steal it.

An eyebrow arches as her gaze slides over the sweater and you watch her press her lips together to prevent a smile forming.

Eventually, even before you say anything, you step aside and allow her inside your den of loneliness and misery. There's a flicker of warning that perhaps you should clean up the soiled dishes, but she's already here and nothing you do will make the place look any better. It is what it is. That's all. Rot.

“Sit.” The single command comes out a bit choked as you watch her dawdle over to the sofa. And she does, easily, and stares up at you expectantly, clearly still amused at your attire.

Finally, she leans back into the worn cushions. “Cosy.” It could sound like a compliment to an untrained ear that hasn't heard every single way she digs at people with just her words. There's a note of sarcasm under it all, and smugness. Much like that first time you'd told her you lived at G-Dump.

“It's not,” you finally say, shaking your head. It's too late to play nice with her. You're tired. There's no strength remaining to get into a battle of wits with her anymore.

“Well,” she begins, trying to ignore your tone, almost immune to your see-sawing coldness. “I brought a peace offering.” From inside her handbag, she pulls out two bottles of wine. You can hear the clink of more in her bottomless bag.

God, it's been so long since you've even had a sip. It's not that you can't drink here. You simply haven't brought yourself to give up fifteen dollars for a bottle you'd be likely to finish in an hour, all by yourself. Cigarettes are your only vice now, and even those are strictly rationed. Why June feels it necessary to show up on your doorstep with wine, in the evening, you're still unsure and that uncertainty makes you suspicious.

You wonder if you have two wine glasses. Well, you don't even have one. This isn't Gilead. Her words are still nipping at you, crawling under your skin. “Peace offering?”

She sighs and looks down at the bottles instead of meeting your eyes. “I noticed you aren't coming to see Nicole anymore and I think I know why. So... yeah. Sorry, on behalf of everybody I live with?”

 _And you too_ , a nasty little voice reminds her, in your head. She was hardly innocent. What was that old phrase that people used to use against you? _The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing_. Maybe neither of you are as good as others seem to wish you are. And you still don't entirely trust her motives for being here as the hair raises on the back of your neck. She sets the snare with delicately enunciated words and a reassuring smile. 

Your gaze shifts to the bottle of white with her fist clasped tightly around its neck. It's not a Riesling but it'll do.

 

 

* * *

 She's on her third glass of red and you're almost all of the way through your bottle of white wine blend and the warm fuzzy feeling of a buzz has emerged with a vengeance. Surely, it's the alcohol more than the company but you can't seem to reign in your mind from escaping into fantasy. It's stupid but you look at the deep red stain on her lips from the Merlot and find yourself wondering if you were to kiss her right now, whether it would taste like rosé on your tongue.

But you had agreed to her rules all those weeks ago.

Like Vegas, what happens in Gilead, stays in Gilead. All the violence, agony, fear, and lust. Everything gets locked away like that little ballerina in the music box you'd given her.

In retrospect, however, this agreement is idiotic. When both of you—hell, the entire world—is currently living with the fallout of your bad decisions and ruthless actions, it seems a little juvenile to put your fingers in your ears and pretend it doesn't exist and never happened.

It happened.

 _Everything_ there happened.

And as you rest against the concrete railing on your 16th floor balcony, and glance over at her face illuminated by the ambient city lights and the flickering bulb above, you know she hasn't locked it away tightly either.

She refuses to look at you for very long, and rarely directly in your eyes. That's a dead giveaway.

Meanwhile, all you can think about is how it would feel to touch her again, like some pathetic lovesick teenager with a crush. It's disgusting really. Or maybe that's just the wine getting to your head.

Part of you wants to do away with all the words, and glances, and bullshit, and just _feel_ her. The way you did in Gilead. Because, probably, those were the only moments when you sincerely felt any sort of control over her at all, like she needed _you_. (You needed her far more, you know deep down.) When she was bucking against your mouth, begging you just by the way she grasped at your hair, that was true power. Making her come so hard she couldn't catch her breath for a few moments, her lips swollen from biting down to keep herself quiet, she couldn't stop the trembling in her thighs and hands and voice. You can't think of a single other time in your life where you'd ever felt so assured of control.

And for Christ's sake, there is nothing you feel more often now than the witless spiral of losing the last vestiges of your power.

But you don't even move to do any such thing. Neither does she. Instead, she quietly sips out of the coffee mug you'd bought for 50 cents at the thrift store, staring out across the city, watching the tiny people—mostly hookers and drunks—move about in the courtyards and streets below.

You have an agreement, after all, no matter how stupid it may be. You'd made a promise and there are so few of those you've managed to keep; it's almost like a buried treasure.

With a stilted sigh, you place a cigarette between your lips and light up, inhaling deeply. That tiny rush of nicotine is as close to sex as you can get these days. She finally looks over to you, and plucks your cigarette from your fingers as you exhale slowly, trying not to meet her eyes either. You both smoke your cigarette in silence.

 

 

* * *

Your second bottle is half empty and it's been maybe two hours since she showed up on your doorstep. The computer still is droning on, and she's lounging at one end of your sofa, feet tucked up under her, the picture of drunken relaxation. Her cheeks are pink, idly biting a fingernail, and relaying a particularly heartwarming story about Nicole and Hannah at the park a few days previous. These are the types of memories you want to have as your own, and there's just a tiny spark of resentment that she gets all of it and you get nothing, even now. But, even so, you can't help the smile that stretches across your lips as you imagine your daughter that almost was; your mind is fuzzy, your normally hard borders wilting until the influence.

You glance at the time and wonder why she doesn't have to get home, what lies she's told to be here tonight, where her husband and friends and children think she is right now. There's very little chance that she told them the truth. Not Moira. Not Emily. You nod along to her words even though you've lost track of them and you can't bring yourself to ask her how she managed to be here. It's none of your business when it really comes down to it.

A soft silence fills the room as she finishes recounting the memory. Her gaze falls to the near-empty mug in her lap, running a finger around the rim. A cloud settles over the sofa, darkening her face and she winces. Sighing, she reluctantly speaks. “Luke's been sleeping on the living room sofa for the last few months.”

This is the first you've heard of her husband in quite some time. You'd always assumed he was just busy, most days. You'd never asked about him, never questioned where he was. You preferred to pretend he didn't quite exist. Not out of any sort of malice, of course, but it was just easier for you not to consider him, and especially her with him, at all.

“He thinks I'm at a support meeting right now.”

There are so many questions to ask her but your throat feels tight and your tongue fat and swollen with the news. Of course she lied to be here; that part isn't a surprise at all, yet it's something you didn't want to hear out loud all the same. And you despise the way your chest flutters just a little with the bad news about her husband but you can't help that ugly side of you that's happy to hear it. She's come here, to you, when her marriage is failing, a smug voice reminds you incessantly. That has to mean something.

Finally, you recognize it's your turn to say anything at all in return.

“Why?”

Her blue eyes meet yours, a hard glare surprising you. At first, you fear it's about you, something else to blame on you and hold over you. Yet another reason to keep you from entering their house. She scoffs, a soft hurt sound. “I told him about Nicole. About Nick.”

Now, you really want to ask why the Hell she'd do something so completely moronic to the man she loves. But then, you look her over, how miserable she seems, and know she is already totally aware of her mistake. “I thought he would understand. I was so sick of him looking at Nicole like she was a product only of what happened there.” She sniffles. “All the pity, disgust... Like, all he could see was me getting raped every time he looked at her.”

You've never told her about the visit to Canada, about how enraged her husband had been when confronted with Fred, in the flesh, close enough to murder him with his bare hands. So much unchecked rage in his eyes, just aching to burst free. That sort of thing doesn't just dissipate on its own; you know that evil firsthand. It has to go _somewhere_ , get translated into some other emotion, or forced onto someone else.

“Wow.” It's all you can think to say.

Snorting, she rolls her eyes. “Yeah, wow. Took me a lot of support meetings to say that shit out loud.”

Again, you're jealous that she's even granted the ability to attend meetings. You get to deal with it all by yourself, with nobody to talk to except Marnie who is overworked and barely sympathetic on the best of days.

“It made things even worse.” Her voice is quiet, quivering just slightly. “I'm not sure he'll get over it.”

The trained, studied part of your brain wants to tell her that he was never going to get over it, _ever_ , no matter what she says or keeps secret. They were broken apart the moment the Eyes kidnapped their daughter, grabbed her from those woods to be a Handmaid, and left him to die. There's no coming back from that; there never was a chance.

But, that's just what June does: she pretends things aren't real, that people can just lock away the things they don't like, that bad things never happened.

Peering into your empty glass, you let the words hang in the silence surrounding you both on this crappy sofa in the slum apartment. Your blood is flowing, molten and hot, and there's a thunder in your ears out of nowhere. For a moment, you look to her and she meets your eyes, saying nothing but seeping hopelessness and hurt. Words are lost on you despite years of tending to their growth. Failing to find anything of comfort to say (mostly because you don't believe in white lies that give false hope), you gaze at the wall instead before slowly standing. It's as good a time as any to refill your drink and the escape will be welcomed.

 

The wine dribbles into your cup as you idly watch. The fact is, you don't even want anymore to drink. You just need to get away from her and the wave after wave of stinging reality she inadvertently throws at you. She makes you think too much, get too lost in your own head.

Despite the alcohol, some of your remaining senses are still keenly tuned and her warmth behind you is what you feel first when she joins you in the small kitchen. Without her big brown boots, you tower over her even in sock-clad feet as you turn to her. A gentle hand reaches out and takes the wine from you, places the drink on the countertop. Heat rises quickly through your chest at her nearness. That thing you hate inside you sends sparks of unwanted arousal deep into your abdomen. It's not the time, and you curse your own body for its petty betrayal.

She doesn't move back, a dangerous glint in her eyes that you'd seen before in the darkness of her attic room when you'd first come to her. Your mind is screaming about your agreement; _don't take advantage of her vulnerability_. She's only here in this spot because her husband can't reconcile the truth. You're only here because your husband couldn't even face it.

“Will anybody else ever understand?”

Her voice is tight, raspy and rough, as if she's just woken up from a nightmare. There's a vein of terror in the question.

 _What if the only person to ever understand is_ _**you**?  _Not even Moira who suffered at so many men's dirty hands; not even Emily who was subjected to horrors beyond your understanding; not June's husband who is a man and can never possibly know the pain or violation or subjugation. Hannah is too young, and Nicole innocent and unaware. Because they weren't in that house for those years.

None of them know the smell of your duvet or the musty attic or the tinny sound of your music box. Nobody else feels the lumps of her creaky mattress as it almost buckles under your combined weight. They don't shudder at the confident sound of men's footsteps on those old hardwood floors, or the snap of his belt as it meets skin. Not a single one of them will ever understand exactly how intoxicating the smell of those red ballpoint pens were as the ink smeared across the side of your hands when you wrote and she rewrote security orders in the sanctity of Fred's filthy den. Absolutely nobody else on earth knows what went on in your bedroom with the three of you, especially during those final months. Or that time, the worst one. The one you never, ever can mention.

She knows. All of it. Intimately.

Her husband wasn't next to her when she saw Nicole's ultrasound for the first time; that was you. He wasn't next to her when she first suckled her new baby girl; that was you. He wasn't watching over her as she fucked Nick for the first time; that was you. He didn't suggest it. When she first shared the movement of the baby inside her, it was your hands in hers as you held your breath. He wasn't there when you held her down on your bed for Fred, when you threw her to the floor, when Eden was drowned, when she woke in the hospital, when your husband beat you in front of her. He wasn't the one who piloted that boat through the rough waters of the river, drove the van, huddled in the biting cold with Hannah, pulled her onto the shores of Canada. That was you and her.

He wasn't her hero. He was just the guy who waited for her to return to him with another lover's child.

“No.”

You're not lying. It's simply impossible for anybody outside that wretched house to really know what it was like for a woman inside those green and grey walls and you're too drunk to pretend otherwise.

She considers your honesty as you ball your hands into fists at your sides to resist temptation.

The thing about Canada is the freedom and the passage of time. It's like life has slowed down, nothing is as desperate as it once was. There is the glisten of hopelessness in her eyes as she moves forward, taking your stiff arms in her hands, pulling your resistant body down. When she kisses you, there's none of the frenzy that you'd come to know from her touch. Instead, there's a sorrow in the way she tastes, like a slow melting snow in spring but without the promise of new life at the end.

It's a shared despair borne from the harsh reality that you two will forever be isolated from the rest of the world because of that place. Her estrangement from the man she loves certainly plays a role. You press harder, yearning for some of that lustful madness from before and she opens easily to your tongue and you'll take whatever she's willing to give at this point. She grips at your ugly sweatshirt, grabbing, tugging you closer, a muted groan escaping as you push a thigh between her legs.  

Her kisses don't taste like rosé after all.

 

 

* * *

 When you feel her skin flush against yours, it's like the answer to a prayer you don't even know the words to.

You can't recall a time in your life where you weren't a devout believer, but nothing then had prepared you for what it would be like with her. The first time you caused her to tremble in ecstasy instead of agony, that felt like the first spiritual experience you'd ever had. Nothing compared. Every hymn, sacrament, vow, ritual, they all paled in comparison to how your body responded to hers in those moments, how your soul shivered in awe of something far bigger than you, or her, or even the two of you together. Rules, man or God in origin, and the boundaries they created had always been something of a crutch for you, a reliable force of habit to revert into when threatened, but suddenly whatever was happening felt boundless and vast yet all-encompassing.

It would be the most wicked blasphemy to insist you finally found God then, so you don't. (Out loud.)

While the initial shock has faded in time, there's still an insistent pulse (and quiet scream) when she's with you, naked like this, that scares you. There is nothing about this that fits into your world view, nothing that makes it okay. It goes against everything you believed. The way she arches breathlessly against you as is the opposite of practical or godly, but the closest thing you've seen of divinity.

Like the rain you can hear pouring down against the windows, it's the sky breaking open. Heaven unleashed. This is for pleasure, for release. 

Nothing else.

Pointless, hedonistic _gratification_.

But, as your mouth moves over her skin, tasting sweat, feeling the hot burn of her arousal in response to you, there's something else. Her hands thread into your loose hair, gripping and pulling feverishly at you, her hips pushing against your fingers, and her moaning against your lips vibrates straight into the core of your being.

Yes, intercourse is the burgeoning practical concern of humanity in this time of crisis. It's the act that allows DNA to bind, replicate, and form a new human. The functional biology of the species cannot be changed. But this act, what you had long considered pointless, selfish and downright sinful due its lack of practicality, seems now equally necessary for your own survival, and hers.

These unholy things inside you right now, the way your body thrums with hers, how there is an unspoken cooperation and dance, that's something too. Intercourse makes a baby, but _this_ binds people together. Not a silly knot of red and blue string, all Gilead's silly pantomimes of faithfulness and devotion.

That doesn't matter though, not when she rocks against your hand, moaning louder and you slide even deeper inside her, biting down just hard enough on her shoulder. _Nothing_ feels like this. You've become an expert at exactly what she needs and when. You don't give in, not yet, and the pressure on her clit remains more of a rhythmic suggestion than a fulfillment.

“Fuck, Serena,” she groans, louder than she's ever dared before, maybe loosened by the wine, maybe trying to overpower the thunder.

A wetness floods the juncture between your legs at the unfettered arousal she displays, and how very loud she is. This is new, because you're in Canada and you're free. There are no Guardians at the door, no Marthas down the hall, no Commanders waiting in the wings to cut off your clit and send you to the Colonies for gender treachery.

Your tongue circles her peaked nipple before taking it into your mouth, and she chokes on a cry of pleasure, scratching at your back, her fingernails raking over your scars, carelessly.

“ _Fuck_.”

She's _so_ loud in your empty apartment and part of you can't help but be ashamed by how much it turns you on, how much just her sounds make your own body ache to be touched. Of course, it's natural but the only time you'd ever heard female pleasure so unabashedly liberated (but fake) was the wanton porn stars in online videos.

This, however, is all too real. You tug her nipple lightly between your teeth and she hisses at you, one hand digging into your upper arm and the other pulling painfully at your hair. It doesn't matter because you're so wet and so desperate to make her come as hard as possible for you, and only you, in as many ways as possible. Then you want the same because if you don't get it, you may actually throw yourself off the balcony finally.

One hand snaps tightly around your wrist, impatient and probably frustrated. With a smirk to yourself, you flatten your tongue against her breast and increase the pressure on her clit. Her head falls back and a resounding, if staccatoed, cry of relief bounces off your bare walls.

 _God,_ you think. He hasn't forsaken you, not quite yet because you're still given this vision of glory.

It doesn't take much longer for her breathing to come faster alongside yours, her body trembling and bucking against you as you curl your fingers in just that way that gets her to come hard and fast and so very, very wetly. The sound that erupts out of her smaller frame is like nothing you've ever heard. Under her, the bed sheets are soaking, and you stay put, allowing her to slowly ride out the remaining waves of her orgasm.

Soon after, she's like warm clay in your hands, and it's easy to kiss up her chest, lingering on her neck as she hums, still trying to catch her breath as her hands are gentler on your body. A quirk of her lips begets a wider grin.

Nobody else will ever understand.

She sighs against your lips, and all you can think is how to best refrain for looking so crazed and delirious. With shuddering limbs and breath, your mind spins with the desire to once again slide your tongue through her folds, truly taste her, get lost in her completely. There is nothing like the sight you have of her, over the plains of her skin, from between her legs. People become accustomed to landscapes they see all the time. Many of the ones who've grown up beside the ocean, no longer see it as a restless, glorious beast. Those who have grown up in the foothills of mountains lack appreciation for the splendor of such a horizon over time. Miles of uninhabited forests and dense jungles are places to be wary of, to avoid for fear of shadows and lurking hunters. Even the city-dwellers lose sight of the sheer accomplishment that a skyscraper contains. They're just mountains, that's just the ocean, they'll say and laugh. What's so special about a tree or a building? What's the big deal? The everyday becomes the mundane, and perspective fades into a blurred shadow of the past, something only vaguely recognized on the periphery of human experience. A cathedral often visited becomes merely a stone-walled vessel of antiquity, boring, barely seen to be as beautiful as it is, unless there is spirit inside, a soul aching for meaning and listening to its echoes within its walls.

You've seen her from every angle, over and over. Now, you've been pulled away, and returned like a wandering tourist to her body, reliving your own nostalgia for a place and time. Except it isn't the same city, forest, mountain, ocean, church. The time and place have both been changed and nothing has been preserved for you; nobody can own a landscape. She's a work of art, alive of her own will, her soft and sublime landscape breathing itself into existence.

Wanderlust, they might call it as your fingers continue to explore every dip, and your mouth follows familiar trails over her, never settling down. It feels more like coming home and the sight of her, like this especially from between strong thighs, may retain some novelty still but your soul dwells within the experience. She's your cathedral, your mountain, your forest, casting a vision that you'll never stop seeing God in. Every curve is a thing of beauty, every sigh and gasp is a blessing, every kiss is a quiet prayer, the view given to you is a masterpiece. Perhaps she sees something of the same, but you have your honest doubts. Gilead still hangs in the corners, like old cobwebs. All you know is that she came to you this time, lonely but freely, seeking what you have to offer, living through a melancholic wanderlust of her own.

"Oh, God, Serena," she groans again as you glide your tongue against her heat.

_How happy the soul that has been awed by a view of God’s majesty._

 

 

* * *

 The next time she shows up at your door, a few days later in the middle of the afternoon, instead of wine, she holds out a clay window pot before even saying hello. It's full of young green shoots, all sorts of herbs. Chives, thyme, rosemary, oregano, sage. You know already that they're going to need new homes soon enough but it's perfect. It really is possibly the most thoughtful gift you've ever received. There had been a lot missing from this difficult life in Canada, and in all the mess, you'd completely put aside all thoughts about your beloved plants. These small beings will give you something to take care of in the absence of Nicole, something to tenderly raise. And it will definitely help spice up your very limited cooking.

Words stick on your tongue like glue when all you want to say is a simple, “Thank you.” Instead, there's a building warmth in the corners of your eyes, and the tears are imminent. Blinking them away, you smile as best you can as the plants find a new home right in the sunny patch near your balcony door.

In return, you give her the only thing you have left, a few hours to forget the rest of the world between your rough bed sheets, to forget history, at least for a few minutes. She swallows it whole.

 

The third time, she has a bag of fresh oranges. In the sight of such a luxury, and the fact she seems to recall your fondness for the fruit, an uncomfortable lump forms in your throat. You don't even make it to the fridge with them before her hands are pushing under your waistband and her lips demanding and hard against yours.

There is no way you deserve this.

Deep in your chest, the shame takes hold and bitterness bubbles up in response. She forces you to feel the worst things. There's no more control.

 


	6. moons that glimmer above, waters that lie white under

You've never been anybody's dirty secret. You've never been a piece on the sly. While you've been used by quite a few men for various reasons (mostly political), you're not certain you've ever been used quite like this. As the thrill of being with her again begins to wane, it starts to feel a touch dehumanizing as if you're just a means to an end. She shows up, telling some lie to those dearest to her, and leaves an hour or so later, going home to her husband, children, and best friends in their beautiful house across the valley. You remain, alone, in this tiny prison of an inner city apartment with its peeling paint and growing mould. Something tickles your mind, teasing you about irony but you stomp it out every time. 

The wine night, as you refer to it in your head and in your notebooks, seemed like a friendship with benefits, as if you were beginning an actual equal human adult relationship at least. Each step afterwards has moved farther from that ideal. The gifts, which initially had seemed genuine now feel like bribes, like payment for benefits in kind. Maybe you'd stop her or turn her away, if you were a better, stronger, more moral, more godly (god-fearing) person. 

But you're not. 

God doesn't care about you (or her) and the second you smell her, touch her, feel her, your sinful nature revs up into top gear. It's the unstoppable force you'd heard about all those times and never quite understood, because most of all, you'd been able to restrain yourself, deny yourself, live in the cage that held you so snugly. Sometimes when you walk by the junkies on the street, you sneer at their begging and unkempt demeanour, and turn your back on their desperate jonesing. Other times, you feel a kindred connection and the bile in your throat burns with that acknowledgement. 

Like acid, this need you have is corrosive, eating slowly away at the foundations of who you are as a person and everything you had built of yourself over the years. She just has to press her mouth against your neck and your resolve buckles. You easily revert to that shadow self you'd kept hidden, that you'd repressed or not even known existed. 

She feels really, really _good_. 

She makes you feel like a different person. 

Specifically, you're not the Serena Joy Waterford that wrote a book on the ideal subjugation of women as breeding stock, that assisted your demon of a husband in staging a bloody coup and writing laws of torture, that willfully and complacently spent years upon years in a Hell you created, or even the Serena Joy Waterford that routinely abused the very same woman who lies naked on your cheap discount bed sheets in some sort of fucked up karmic experiment gone awry. With her, you're not _that_ person. 

But you're not sure if you're any better either. 

When she arrives one day with Nicole in her stroller, a part of you wants to spit in her face for the obvious manipulation. June has always known precisely how to best get under your skin, how to get you to bend to her, how to rile you into fits of unwanted emotion. With the practised exactitude of a surgeon she extracts the vile, weak parts of you and forces you to look, to remember, to own them. Even worse she takes out the good parts too and shows you the ghosts of what could have been, a shameful mirror to the person you could have been once but will never live up to. When truth breaks your resilience down just enough, she pounces to get what she wants. 

Another other part of you that isn't prone to immediate rage and mistrust gazes down at your daughter, up at her mother, then back at Nicole, and this is exactly what you want. You swallow, hard. 

When Nicole is tired from your constant attention and napping in the old playpen that the previous tenants had left behind, June touches you under your t-shirt, just the suggestion of something more across the curve of your waist as a finger stumbles over one of your scars. Her eyes still whisper, _Fuck you, Mrs. Waterford,_ when you catch her in just the right light at just the right angle. She's only doing what she needs to survive; that's all she's ever done. 

So you let her feel the heat of your skin and the growing damp between your legs because you want her and you hate her, all at once.

 

 

* * *

 The sunlight is actually blinding outside your windows as you water the struggling herb garden that just can't seem to flourish here. The bright light glints off the building opposite and catches your eyes at the exact angle to feel like a laser beam. While the scene may seem optimistic, you know better than to believe that a sunny day means warm temperatures. Not in Canada. Not at this time of year. It means precisely and utterly the opposite. And, without surprise, when you open the balcony door for a morning smoke, the wind is bitterly cold, like a thousand invisible icicles raking and tearing over your cheeks with every gust. Surely there's some frostbite warning on the news. 

Part of it feels like penance still, so you take a long drag on your cigarette and squeeze your eyes shut against the cold, waiting for the freezing temperatures to turn your remaining fingers into painful appendages that crack like crystal. 

Stepping back into the heat of your apartment just feels suffocating. But, there's a quiet knock at your door. Glancing at the time, your mind whirls. It's too early for a surprise drop-in from June; it's even too early for that man who always asks for Genevieve in that terrible accent of his. The sound doesn't vibrate properly, too unfamiliar. Not even Marnie would do a spot visit in this weather. But, peering through your peephole, once again you're greeted by blonde hair. With the concern of a worried nurse and the confusion of a coma patient just waking after 30 months, you usher her inside, stroller and all. Nicole peers up at you, smiles from under all her layers of blankets and hats, and makes sounds that vaguely resemble the English language. 

“What's wrong?” There are no pleasantries anymore. At this point, why bother? She only ever visits for one reason anymore, but strangely this is out of place. 

Little concern lingers in your voice. She shrugs off your superficial worry with a shake and it's almost as if she's ignoring you. Tossing her large coat over the chair, she works on removing Nicole's fleecy bondage. Your heart flutters at bit at the sight of the baby underneath, but it's short-lived when your stomach growls. 

“I haven't even had breakfast yet,” you state pointedly, looming over them both, as if this visit is a particularly unwelcome interruption to your otherwise incredibly busy schedule. (It's not, not really. But there are roles to play even now.) 

“It's noon,” she snaps back without even looking at her watch. The sound is a bit short, angry almost. For a brief moment you wonder if she's always been this careless with her tone and words, or if this is what comes out of her when she's comfortable. No fear. 

 _Why are you here?_ you really want to scream at her. This isn't how things are meant to be done now. While it may not have been written in stone, you'd assumed the rather tenuous meetings of late had a pattern to them that was to be followed. Noon is too early for anything requiring your calm or decorum. 

Without a word to you, she tosses all Nicole's blankets, jacket, and hat on the chair as well and wanders off into you kitchen. For a second, you pause, listening. The clink of glass echoes from inside and soon the tap is running. Moving down to Nicole's level, you grin and wrestle her from the stroller, and pull her onto your lap on the sofa. She talks to you, sort of, and you have become accustomed to these kinds of baby conversation. At least you can keep up and you're not worried about saying the wrong thing by accident. 

So absorbed are you that you don't notice June wandering back into the living room, until she places a plate down on the table. It's peanut butter toast. For you. She sips on a glass a water and waits. 

Nicole reaches out for the snack but her chubby arms aren't even close to bridging the gap and you look to June, who again merely shrugs and leans back into the sofa, waiting. Unwilling to give her the satisfaction of seeing your surprise (and gratitude), you murmur to Nicole instead about how you get to eat toast but she can't, not yet, because she's still in need of a few more teeth. 

And that's how it is, for hours almost. Just you, Nicole, and June, all playing in your ugly apartment like it's totally normal until the baby is tired enough to whine. It's her sleepy cry, and the playpen crib is already waiting for her in the corner of the living room. A new baby monitor is securely fastened on it, a garish shiny blue against the neutral tones of the playpen itself. 

Blue should make you happy. It's your favourite colour. 

Or was. Now, your closet is empty of anything blue. 

 _Red's my colour_. A smirk. _Well, that's lucky_. 

You've noticed she never wears anything red anymore either. 

Gilead has even stolen primary colours from you. You both exist in shades of grey, brown, and muted greens, just like the Toronto landscape. Even your dreams lack vibrancy; your nightmares are just an empty black. 

She shifts, idly almost, but just falling that little bit closer to you. Propping her cheek on her hand, and bracing against the back of the sofa, she watches you silently. Eventually, she cracks the barest hint of a smile. “You have peanut butter on your face.” 

There's no reason you should flush the way you do; it's hardly anything embarrassing. But, regardless, you can feel the pink heat building under the skin of your cheeks. A quick hand attempts to wipe it away, but you have no idea where the offending peanut butter is. 

Her lips stretch further at your uselessness and to put your out of your clear misery, a soft thumb reaches out and touches you, just at the corner of your mouth. It doesn't linger. There is no heavy meaning in the gesture, no unbearable tension. The way she wipes her thumb clean against her jeans is so casual and thoughtless (The stuff of practiced mothers, really). But, something in the action causes your lungs to ache, and you realise you've been holding your breath a little too long. 

It's much too early in the day for her to be here, and her quiet presence (her inadvertent intimacy) has exhausted you already. 

During the next few moments, an unfamiliar sort of paralysis seeps through your muscles. Fight or flight has turned to freeze. Her mouth is on yours without warning, soft lips pushing against you, hands roaming languidly over your awful hot pepper sweatshirt. It's not that you don't wish to return her kisses, but just that you don't know how. Her breath is light and her movement completely unhurried, lacking the pulse of energy and desperation that has accompanied every other single incidence of this, nor the weighty pressure of denial. 

With your heart beating wildly in your chest, a fear overtakes your senses momentarily: you honestly don't know how to kiss her this way. 

All you've known is carnal lust, power, anger, possession, desperation, fear, a searing desire to block out the world and forget by any means necessary. They are, if the songs are true, all aspects of passion. 

This shouldn't be, but seems like the flipside of that same coin and you've never seen it before. 

Her fingers aren't weaving, demanding, sneaking underneath your clothes. She's not panting and cursing in your ear or biting at the delicate skin of your neck enough to leave those horrible hickeys Marnie had noticed once. There's no ragged removal of clothes, and your nails are not digging into her flesh. The longing is there. Is it _ever_. But, there's something unfamiliar along with it that cramps every muscle into stone. 

She stops when she realises you're a statue, primly seated on the sofa with no attempt to reciprocate. For a moment, she leans back, just enough to look at you, to read your eyes and all you can see is light blue. Blown pupils rimmed with the gentlest blue in the sky. Like those summer mornings, a very long time ago in Indiana. Like the ice that builds on the buildings downtown during February. The seemingly permanent shadows that haunt her on a normal basis are gone. 

At the last second before she moves away, you lean into her and attempt this new thing she's started. 

 

* * *

 It hadn't actually been difficult at all, once you forced your body to slow down, to relax, to fall into instead of push against hers. Surely you've done this before. There must have been a time you'd kissed Fred just like this, touched him gently, felt his hands gliding instead of gripping. But, that was such a long time ago that you can no longer be certain your memories are even real. Everything about his name now brings up the sting of a leather belt, the bruising grasp on your arms, your legs (her arms and legs), and the rabid disgust on his face in the aftermath. 

The baby monitor on the chair beside your bed is quiet. The city is full of noise outside and every so often a yell echoes upwards to your apartment from the swathes of vagrants and drug-addled nutjobs below. But, the sun is still bright in your white room. 

Every movement she makes is slow, as if she'd carefully calculated all of this beforehand, like she'd seen it in a dream and was making sure to relieve every moment. You'd like to believe she's savouring it somehow, like you are. Memorising every passing second and every fleeting touch. 

You've never seen God; you're not sure you've ever seen anything that really made you believe in God either. His presence has always been merely a feeling and you think comparisons to angels are cliched and tacky. Besides, you don't suspect any deity of any level would be recognisable to you any longer. However, the way her blonde hair drifts just over her shoulders with every small movement, the way the sunlight hits her pale skin, the crystal blue of her eyes, the rosy hue of her cheeks, her lips, and her nipples, it's all creating something equivalent to what you're certain all those Renaissance masters saw when painting His angels. 

There's very little for you to do but stare over the plane of your body to hers. She's straddling your thigh, her two hands braced against the softly protruding bones of your hips as she slides in tiny strokes, grinding herself on you, with your slightly bent knees creating the perfect angle for her. It's still slow, much slower than you've ever experienced. Her mouth is open just enough for heavy breaths to escape but she's not making those excessive noises you've become accustomed to here. At first, you wondered if she was okay—if something was actually wrong—but you're certain she is fine now because her chest is heaving and the pressure on your leg is increasing incrementally with every passing moment. 

You have no idea where to put your hands, even now. Touching her seems needy, but your fingers itch with exactly that. Your hips are moving of their own accord too, but finding little more than air, and if you're lucky, a brush of her leg. One palm settles on her folded knee, sometimes sliding up to her stomach, her breasts and back down, the other grips her other leg. Waiting. 

If you didn't know better, you'd feel used. In fact, you should probably feel even more used than usual since you seem to be nothing more that a soft object to get herself off. Replace your body with a plush toy or armchair and it would likely serve the same purpose. But, it's not like that when you gaze up at her face; her eyes meet yours over and over—and it's only then that you realise how unusual that is for you two. Any sort of prolonged eye contact has never been a hallmark of your dynamic, unless it's a challenge, done with anger. 

And sometimes she hovers closer, enough to kiss you over and over and that's when your hands are freer to roam over her skin. She gives you the relief you're seeking, momentarily. 

There's a particular timbre to the way she breathes out your name. A rumble of something needy, bordering on grateful even. She may honestly be enjoying this for the sheer pleasure of it and not as a coping mechanism or a temporary way to banish the sickly shadows of Gilead that stick themselves to you both like tar. This is the one and only time you are fully certain she doesn't actually hate you. Her eyes are clear. They sparkle. 

Maybe it's just a trick of the midday sunlight. 

Or perhaps a dream, because this is the only time you have ever, ever felt thoroughly and honestly free from the past. Even in trying to forget it and shake it free, Gilead has always lain between you. In this light, with her eyes on you and your hands on her, with her release the only motive for any of this, your ghosts aren't hungry anymore. 

She's close. You've done this together so often that her tells have become like reading Aramaic, the language of gods and angels. Her breathing is ragged, panting more often and her fingertips are pressing just slightly harder into your skin. A flush of pink is crawling up her chest. 

“Serena,” she whispers, choking on the last syllable in tandem with her stroke against your leg. Her arms are trembling and for you, that triggers an ache in your bones. 

You don't know how you understand what she's asking, but it's the sort of thing you're used to by now. Pulling yourself up, arms wound tightly around her, you feel her whole body moving against yours and the friction is absolutely intoxicating, even at this pace. Her skin tastes different here in Canada, in some way. Instead of your hips, her hands are holding fast to your shoulders now and you know she's using your strength. A warm rush of satisfaction sweeps through your chest at the thought. More frantically, she wraps her arms around your neck, pulling you closer as you crane your face up to watch her. She meets your enraptured gaze again, unflinching. 

When she comes, she gasps loudly, a hair's breadth away from your lips, but doesn't scream out. 

You can feel the shaking of her entire body reverberating across yours but she continues to writhe against you, kissing you deeply until she eventually moves back, putting cold air between you. Her cheeks are deep pink with a light sheen of sweat and her shoulders heave, mouth open as she catches her breath. In her eyes, there's something else; you're afraid to ask when you see the glistening glaze. 

She doesn't allow you much time to consider what it could be before she snaps a hair tie off her wrist, pulling her short hair back and gazing at the sight of you. She delicately eases your legs apart with a hint of a smile, her gaze confidently locked on yours. Whispers abound in the hanging silence that this isn't like those other times: there's no desperation, no misery, no denial of sordid histories just barely past. Her movements here are asking you this time, instead of demanding. 

As her kisses slowly float over your stomach, around that white scar, it feels for the first time like worship.

 

 

* * *

 To you, there appears one of the great wonders: 

 _A woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet, and on her head a crown of twelve stars_. 

Your once-sharp memory of the Book of Revelation has grown a bit ragged with lack of use in the recent year but it comes flooding back as you stand at your own bedside, dressed only in a secondhand Blue Jays t-shirt and shorts while balancing an unlit cigarette in your maimed hand. It's too easy to see, and not for the first time you're awed at why you of all people are granted these visions. 

June is sprawled, belly down, on your bed covered by nothing but your thin grey topsheet, draped over her from the waist to her knees. Her elbows are propped up on the mattress, scarred feet idly swinging in the air as she reads from a book of yours. You can't tell which one from this distance but it's certainly a sight you'd never expected. The way the sunlight bounces off her blonde hair, around the curves of her shoulders and the naked dip of her lower back as she arches, it's like she's the one glowing, not reflecting another's light. 

A page creaks as she flips it, hums, and glances up at you with a questioning eyebrow. Little puffs of dust and stray hairs catch the light coming from the window around her face, framing her like a halo, twinkling like the night sky. The most casual Salutation to the Sun you've ever seen. 

You've seen all the images. Heaven has often been depicted in paintings, drawings, books, on film, like some massive paradise of pure white beings bathed in celestial light, all going about their non-specific angelic business in peace. Your breath catches as she smirks up at you, book under her hands. 

Heaven isn't a place, you realise with just the slightest taste of heresy; _it's a woman_. 

Your need for a smoke evaporates in the midst of your awe, for the first time fading into the background. 

“Interesting reading,” she utters with amusement as she dog-ears a page of your book. Your spine stiffens at the sight; god, you hate when people to that to books. She glances over to the teetering stack that towers on a flimsy chair beside your bed. “It's like you stole my mother's bookshelf.” 

You realise you know nothing about her mother, who she is, or where she is, so you're not certain what to make of the observation--whether it's an insult or compliment. You know what's in the tower of used books, as of yet unread by you. The old woman at the library had recommended many of them when she saw you absently flipping through _The Second Sex_. 

A derisive laugh sneaks out as she peers back down at the words in front of her. “You're only missing Wollstonecraft, and the _SCUM Manifesto_.” 

The light from before seems to fade, or maybe the sun has gone behind a cloud. A sigh seems to go along with it, and her voice is lower, softer, regretful. “I used to think she was crazy.” 

Her hand moves to her left ear, unconsciously probably. There used to be a metal tag there with the numbers _0-1185_. Your fingers used to stumble against it when your fingers would tangle in her hair as she went down on you, or when you gently pushed her loose blonde hair back behind an ear, tenderly, in the quiet moments. Now there's a piece of flesh missing, decorated only with a pink scar. Just like that, the ghosts have swept back in. 

The baby monitor crackles with the sound of a waking cry.


	7. sudden softness has replaced the meadows' wintry grey

Music. 

That still remains one of the biggest shocks about being here. Music. Proper, real music. And not drudging hymns at church or the lo-fi elevator muzak of the Gileadean supermarkets. Not even the stolen hours of old records on Fred's turntable. This is pop music, in public. 

Like, music with words, with meaning. All sorts from indie rock to retro throwbacks to folk to pop to soul. It's everywhere you go. In the shopping mall, in the stores, cafes, restaurants, in neighbouring apartments, sometimes even in the courtyard. There are buskers in the subway tunnels, performers at the park on sunny days, small local bands in bars on weekend nights. It's like life didn't completely end here in Canada; they didn't stomp it out, not like it did in Gilead. It's essentially heretical.

You'd be lying if you said it wasn't terrifying—and truly overwhelming—when you'd first arrived. There was too much life and far too much freedom. The rest of the world had kept on turning without you; like you'd been in a coma for years and suddenly everything is too bright, loud, and the passage of time is confounding. 

Sometimes it still takes you a breath or two to relax into it, this sense of natural chaos. Much like being with June is at best a tamed hurricane. So, you breathe. Once. Twice. And adjust again. Nobody had ever claimed you're particularly adaptable, and it's clear you're not like her. You can't slide into new roles while retaining yourself as a whole, yet that is everything you had insisted other women do. 

You're just thankful there isn't music on the streetcars here. Instead, the half-full tram has the grinding of metal wheels on rails, gentle conversations of strangers, and Nicole's quiet babbling in the stroller. 

For the first time in weeks, the sun is fully beating down and there's just the tiniest glimpse of spring through the dreary April days. You realise that it'll be almost a year since that escape and very little has changed. Except this. 

What bothers you is how alone you feel and how muted the world can get, despite this overabundance of sensory information. It's not the first time you've noticed a nervous energy pulsing erratically through your body that causes your fingers to tap relentlessly against any hard surface you can find, your leg to bounce like all those annoying kids you used to have in Sunday school with you. It's the only way to reconnect with the physical world that occasionally feels too much to process. Focus is a tiring task. 

 _Tap, tap, roll, tap, roll._  

Right there on the plastic ridge of the seat near your thigh. The three fingers on your other hand tap out a similar pattern against the handle of the stroller, but it's broken and missing beats. _Tap, tap, tap_. 

Warmth covers your right hand, tentatively but familiar. Even that small act alone contains within it echoes of Gilead. The rhythmic pattern stops for a moment as a shudder passes up your spine at her tenderness. She's holding your hand, more tightly than back then. A squeeze accompanies her gesture and she hangs on longer. 

For a moment, you stare down at your joined hands with fingers woven together. The streetcar stops abruptly and lurches as your other hand grips tightly at the pram. The bump triggers a burst of laughter from Nicole. June doesn't let go of your hand but smiles instead, first at her giggling daughter, then your face. Her grin doesn't fall as it usually does when looking at you directly.

 

 

* * *

 Once, when you were here with Fred that one and only time, you had been staring wide-eyed and wistfully out of the armoured limousine, watching the people of Toronto living freely. Reading, shopping, kissing, laughing, not a gun or soldier in sight. The longing had rumbled deeply and you'd been helpless to keep the tickle of a smile from your lips. It had felt like visiting an alien planet, and one that part of you never wanted to leave, but the stronger part of you knew the righteous must sacrifice these distractions for a better future. 

Today, this day full of surprises on the streetcar, novelty and epiphanies, you are with June and Nicole, and for the first time, you have the courage to live like those strangers you'd seen streaming by through a car window. 

The park isn't particularly busy, but there are enough dogs and children to make a ruckus. It's alive, even in the brown and grey cold. 

She turns to you for quick moment, just to share a glance and without a real thought about the consequences, you kiss her, right there in the park in public. Her nose is cold; it drips a little against your cheek. And so are her lips at first, but she's soft and hungry too. Your heart is walloping loudly inside your chest, far too fast to be healthy. Any moment you expect the butt of a Guardian's rifle to knock you to the ground. A hand grips her down jacket tightly to quell the violent tremors you can feel seizing your body. Everything about this moment feels like the most dangerous thing you've ever done, despite the logical side of your brain knowing that's bald-faced lie. There is nothing in your blood except terror and euphoria, in equal amounts because this feels like everything you've ever desired and yet everything you've always deeply feared and reviled.

To anybody else, there's nothing out of the ordinary. Two women, bundled up against the cold, with a small child. Open expressions of affection aren't illegal, regardless of sex, race, or class. Nobody is stopping to point and stare. Police aren't pulling up with lights flashing. Hate speech, or worse, isn't flung in your direction. Nobody cares. 

Yet it's completely and utterly abnormal to you. Illegal. The stuff of night horrors. 

 _The law is not made for a righteous person, but for the lawless and insubordinate, for the ungodly and for sinners, for the unholy and profane, for murderers of fathers and murderers of mothers, for manslayers, for fornicators, for sodomites..._  

“Don't give yourself a stroke,” she whispers with a smirk as you gently drift back, dazed and desperately trying to reconcile how blissfully free yet terrified you are. Clearly, your panic is palpable and the rickety thumping of your chest noticeable to her. Maybe the grasp of her arm was too tight. Hers however never left the handle of Nicole's stroller and she's calmer than usual, as if this was entirely expected. Like it's an everyday occurrence for her. 

Off your concerned look, she shrugs and smiles, and nudges you with a shoulder as you both continue walking. “Relax.” 

Are those actually butterflies in your chest? It's the closest thing to hope you've felt in years.

 

 

* * *

 Five days. 

No more, no less. Five days of the bliss of normality is all the reprieve you get. 

You get invited over to the house one evening. There's no illusion that the general attitude towards you will not have changed but you jump at the chance to be the one to put Nicole to bed for the night finally. You tuck her in, read her _The Paperbag Princess_ even though you're sure she's too young to have any idea what you're saying. Nobody bothers you in June's bedroom, in the glow of the nightlight as Nicole's eyes close for sleep. 

It's really all you've wanted. 

Downstairs, they're watching a movie, complete with cheap beer and microwave popcorn, and you wonder if they'd only wanted a babysitter. 

When you finally join them, Moira glances at you before she catches her mistake and averts her stare back to the television, chatting idly to the other women: Erin, and Emily's wife. (You can never remember her name even now. Neither she nor Emily are really around that often when you are.) June has left an opening for you, at the end of the sofa, the furthermost spot from anybody else. On her other side is her husband and you're not sure what to make of that. 

Does he know? Does he suspect? Would he try understand why his wife knocks on your door, why she lies, why she kisses you like she can't breathe anymore? She always says what a nice man he his and how she's so guilty that they can no longer connect without baring their mutual suffering. She never admits her lies. 

You know you're unwelcome at this party. Nobody offers you a drink. When another heaping pile of buttery popcorn is brought out, there's no bowl for you. That's just the way it is. 

Everything you feel when you're alone with her disappears inbetween these walls, as if it doesn't really exist, like it was all just a foggy dream you had once. The freedom and peace you experienced as you walked through the park the other day is gone. It's a particular cruelty you'd never known existed before. Hope: robbed, suddenly. 

They all laugh at the film in all the same parts, and between Moira and June, there seems to be a running commentary about every debatable aspect of the plot. At one point, you know Moira's take is very wrong, completely uninformed, but your contributions aren't welcome in the debate because women like you aren't allowed opinions anymore. For some reason, this feels too much like Gilead, but you're the Handmaid at the baby shower instead. Something like a prop to show-off your mistress's graciousness, her false grace and performative good will. A nasty sludge boils in your gut while sour acid burns your throat. 

She wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for you. Her daughter— _his_ daughter would still be in a pink bonnet, unlearning how to read. 

Impotent anger. That's what it is. A role you've played before, silent and seething in the corner as others make decisions, ignoring your contributions. That familiar blue fabric still clinging onto your memory may as well be tied around your body again, tightly suffocating, imploring you to non-action. 

 _Blessed are the meek..._  No.

 _Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled._  

June grabs a blanket from the back of the sofa and pulls it over herself, offering you half (not him) and you catch her eyes momentarily. You'd do anything to kiss her again right now, like the park and without cowardice. She looks away too soon, and you follow the curve of her neck, over the nape, to her collarbone with the caress of your gaze instead of your fingers or lips. Within minutes her hand is curling around your inner thigh, hidden from everyone else and you cover the catch in your breath with a forced cough. At first you wonder if she's like you, and this is a remnant of Gilead. But this is June, and she is nothing if not your complete opposite. Next to her, her husband has no idea. Or maybe he does. There's no guilt in your heart because whatever he knows or doesn't know is not your problem, it's theirs. Frankly, you don't care about him at all. You only care about how you feel, how you're being treated like a sex toy and filthy secret. It's revolting. 

Her thumb strokes defiantly, if anxiously, against the fabric of your jeans and you know she's aware of exactly what she's doing. 

For some reason, it makes you even angrier. You bite your own nails to stop yourself from yanking the hand away, or crying. It's probably more the latter. 

You glance down at his hand, and realise for the first time that he's not wearing a wedding band. You know why she doesn't: Gilead confiscated all jewellery from Handmaids and melted them down for future use, for new brides and grooms in their arranged marriages. Fitting that the theft was not only of young women, but also the precious metals that bound them to their husbands. But June's husband who you know sleeps on this very sofa every night? Perhaps he lost it during his escape; perhaps its absence is deliberate. 

Nobody notices you. They all laugh at some idiot doing something stupid on the bright screen. The rusty taste of iron tingles your tongue as you chew your fingernail a little too short. That's never been a habit of yours before this except when quitting smoking. You'd always had such nice nails. Shifting slightly doesn't shake her hand from it's place, sweaty and uncomfortable on your leg. 

If you could just touch her too, everything would be different. If it could be like those lazy, blithely placid hours at your apartment streaming some Canadian TV show on your old laptop, with her body loose against yours, her leg thrown over yours and her head nestled on your shoulder with your fingers sliding through her hair, gently and rhythmically. You can still feel the haunting touch of her fingertips idly tracing circles over your abdomen under your t-shirt, quite unlike how heavy her hand feels now. This is all wrong.

Moira and Emily's wife snort at some depiction of women making out in the movie, starting a tirade of disbelief at the straights play-acting. June pipes up with her two cents about how it doesn't look that bad, they look like they are into each other. Her best friend, completely ignorant and dismissive of June's own experiences, scoffs and tell June she really has no place to comment since she wouldn't know. Sylvia— _that's her name_ —pipes up about gay for pay, and throws around fancy 7-syllable words from her women's studies lectures that all basically mean the same pissed off thing while you try not to roll your eyes. 

You can feel June's fingers dig in to your thigh and you wince, biting down on your own fleshy fingertip just to keep quiet. 

“You're just way too straight to have an opinion about this,” Moira continues, pointing her beer at June. “Oh, oh! Remember in junior year when you wanted to be set up with Maggie from my Soc class just to 'see what it's like'?” She howls out a laugh as if it's the most ludicrous thing she's ever heard. You half-expect Moira to slap her own thigh like some sort of old-timey sitcom. “That was _the_ most awkward shit I've ever seen!” 

You wonder how it's possible to call someone a best friend and really have no concept of them as a person (You wouldn't know. You can say you've ever had a best friend, anyway, but you've seen the feel-good films and read enough teen girl books to know how it's supposed to go). 

June pushes the blanket away, pulling away from you and leaning forward to see Moira better. “Oh, come on! You're saying I can't have an opinion 'cause I'm not gay enough?” 

“Enough? You're not gay _at all_!” They may all be laughing, and smiling, and waving beers around like wands, but something is crawling along underneath all the joviality. It's black and ugly. It's the stuff of shameful secrets. The place her hand used to be feels cold as ice. “You're just honorary.” 

“Moira!” 

“June!” her friend mimics. “Your husband, a _man_ , is literally sitting right next to you. Eh, Luke? How lez is your wife, huh?” 

His hands raise in surrender, backing away from the squabble, playing the innocent bystander. His laugh is stilted however, like he suspects something in the back of his mind. Something about the way his lips turn up remind you of Fred; superficially it's a smile, uncomfortable of course and saturated with doubt, but present. Underneath, it's a sneer.

There's part of your brain that is screaming at you to interfere, but every time you've done that you've only made things worse. Maybe it's about time you've learned something from all of this. Instead, you slouch, helpless and still, inches away. There's a flashback to that time, on stage in front of those angry college students when someone had thrown a drink at you and you had cowered first, then raced off-stage into the arms of some man whose name you don't even remember. 

“Wait, hold on, hold on,” June interjects, her grin forced and wide, her discomfort blazing like a neon sign to you. “Just 'cause I've never slept with a woman...” 

You don't really hear the rest of her argument. Those words alone are enough to send spikes of rage through your body. It's one thing to just not say anything, and completely another to deny it outright. Yesterday, just yesterday, she'd been at your apartment in the early evening, without Nicole, and you'd shared a few glasses of wine and then orgasms. She clawed at your skin, tangled her fingers in your loose hair, and cried your name. You came so hard from her tongue alone, your hands had lost all feeling for a single glorious minute.

 _Never slept with a woman_ , you think with irritation. You've lost count of how many times she's made you come by now. Double that for her. _God damn_ her for her silence. 

“I saw you try to feel up Maggie! It was hilarious,” Moira sounds so fucking smug, so condescending, so triumphant with her flawed assertion. 

It's not clear where it comes from because rationally you know better, but you can sense the impending disaster before it happens and you're absolutely powerless to prevent it. There's a heavy loathing pressing down on you, directionless yet seeking a target. Prickling around the edges is electricity, a sizzling fury; all it wants is to burn. Something. _Anything_. Only once had you felt anything like this, and it was the first time you saw June's face reappear in Gilead, without Nicole in her arms. The turgid betrayal that oozed from your chest, the way it clouded your vision with red and dripped down your arms and legs, sores open and stinging raw in the air when you realised that only person you'd ever dared to trust in Gilead since Fred had turned on you as well. She'd learnt the hard way what you do when cornered and crossed, made lonely, like that, and how easily the savage beast within could rise up again with just an ounce of provocation. Seduction was rotting in her empty arms, and without the shield of Nicole she was nothing to you once again. Judas. June. How similar the names really were on your tongue.

How could she forget those days? This is probably something that had been building forever and was bound to rear its ugly head eventually. You just weren't totally ready for it to be right now, right as you were finally feeling something approaching happy, for once. 

Maybe it's because you hate Moira, or she hates you, and you want nothing else than to get revenge for all the days and hours she's made you feel like nothing, or worse: like a piece of gum on the bottom of her shoe. Maybe it's because you despise June's denials, you detest being something to be used only in the shadows. Maybe it's because you've learned absolutely nothing from Gilead. 

It isn't like before; it's only words this time but it may as well have been a fist. Your voice floats out before you even attempt to stop it. 

“You'd be surprised.” 

It's just a statement, barely said above a whisper, but the room falls silent and all eyes are focused on you, for the first time ever. Next to you, June's body is taught, on edge, and a glance at her is an even worse decision. You've betrayed your country, your husband, your sex, her multiple times, but nothing has built such a cold fear in you than the look in her eyes now. You may have just ruined everything, again. 

A loud snap follows as Moira slams her empty bottle down on the wooden table, leaning over and facing you head on, flashing anger. 

“Hey, Miss Gilead, newsflash: _rape_ doesn't fucking count.” Her sneer is positively terrifying and your blood runs cold, though you'd never admit it. She shakes her head. “Motherfucker.” 

Christ, if you could slap Moira across the face, you would. Really goddamn hard. You'd _choke_ her for what she's doing right now. 

Maybe Gilead isn't totally out of your system. 

(Or perhaps that's just what you'd brought into it.) 

You've met a hundred Moira's before this, of both sexes. You've had them write scathing op ed pieces in national papers, scream vile hate to your face and to every online account they could find, boycott your speeches, burn your book in histrionic YouTube videos, organized rallies at their colleges against you and your ideas, ranted on their NPR radio shows about your betrayal of women, send vicious death threats to your mother, verbally attacked and shouted you down in TV interviews, you've been literally shot by one hysterical one. But this time, beyond merely believing, you know you're right and she's dead wrong. 

“Ask her,” you assert evenly, with a small nod to June. 

There's no way for you to deny the rape that occurred in Gilead every single month, but you know for certain that nothing even remotely like that has passed between you two here, or even since you lost her in Gilead and then found her again. And it doesn't matter what you say, Moira will never accept anything that ever passes your lips. The only thing left is to throw June to the wolves to save yourself. The idea should make you sick but there's too much anger inside you, too much pain about having your whole place in her life denied. It's only natural. 

No one is looking at you anymore; they're all waiting on her and her eyes are wide, like a frightened animal. Behind that however, you can feel the waves of indignation and alarm cascading off her, all directed to you. Her hands are clenched into fists around the blanket that moments ago hid her lies and her back is rigid. She won't look at you either. 

“This is such bullshit,” she finally sputters out, tossing a dismissive wave towards nobody and everyone. Moira's not taking that as an answer however, and neither is June's husband (or whatever he is) because what she just said isn't exactly a denial. 

“Her?” 

The male voice sounds unfamiliar, and you note how little you've ever really heard him speak. You have no idea who this man is at all really but he sees right through her evasive words. They all know her, though. They knew her before Gilead, some knew her in her formative university years, they have far more history to sort through. You're not sure who knows her better now however, because June appears to be two different people: June, the victorious, pernicious mother, wife and best-friend, and then June, the traumatized woman just doing whatever she can to survive each day. The world sees the first woman but you're far more familiar with the second June, mostly because she speaks to you as you are. When she comes into your bedroom, she leaves behind everything, every mask, only searching for a way not to completely fall apart. There, she is none of those things the world sees.

Still, there's no way to predict how she'll handle this betrayal and her friends probably have a better idea. 

She doesn't seek out your hand for comfort. If anything, she inches away from you as much as possible. With a sigh, and maybe the beginning of tears, she slumps her shoulders and shakes her head. “It's complicated, okay?” 

There's a hardening in Moira's eyes as she takes in the confession, like you're doing it on purpose to hurt her personally, like this is an attack on her. You know that look too well; it'd stared back at you on TV screens when you saw footage of yourself at rallies or in interviewers with the liberal media. Echoing the man's question, Moira stands over her and points at you. “Her? Seriously?” 

“I told you—.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Moira interrupts easily. If you didn't know better, you'd think maybe she's jealous that she wasn't June's first. Her lesbian pride has been dealt a blow. Her best friend pride has been dealt an even heavier blow that the person June decided to confide in, to such an intimate degree, was her sworn enemy. A priggish sort of curve takes over your lips at the idea, just enough for Moira to see. You want the news to make her writhe. 

The outrage at June seems to evaporate too quickly for your liking. Her husband just looks like somebody kicked his dog. There's the very real possibility he is going to cry. Moira is glaring at you, relentlessly. Your jaw clenches, meeting her stare head on. The desire to clasp your hands around her throat and squeeze isn't lessening by any means. You've only ever had one response when cornered. 

In the background, the dumb comedy movie is still blathering inanely on. 

When the anger and shock begins to dissipate with time and quiet, a humid, suffocating sort of feeling hangs over you instead. Is it guilt? Perhaps you'd go so far as well as to call it remorse. 

June's husband says nothing more before standing abruptly and stalking from the room, one heavy footstep after the other. The wine glasses in the cabinet rattle as he goes and a door slams elsewhere. Erin cowers against the arm of her chair before running out of the room as well. 

Nobody has any idea what to say. 

Not until June finally looks to you, defeated. “Why?” 

With a stiffening of your shoulders, your defensive posture is unmistakable. 

 _I tried to resist, but alas, I could not help myself. It is my nature, Frog._  

Glancing toward Moira, you know better than to blame it on her at this point but really that was a huge part of it. In some sense, perhaps you thought you were defending June against the onslaught. Part of you also wanted to get back at June, to make her hurt for giving you hope and then snatching it away. Revenge? You wanted to make Moira squirm too. 

Before you have a chance to explain yourself, or even attempt what would likely be at least a half-true apology, she shrugs with a wince. “You really couldn't give me this one thing, could you? You really can't help yourself.” 

 _No._  

If you couldn't have her, like you had her for five days, they couldn't either. Now she was a stranger to them all, an adulterer, a traitor even. It had been bad enough when she'd befriended you against all their wishes; now she is literally sleeping with the enemy. 

(It is a minor victory for you.) 

“Get out,” she whispers, shaking her head an refusing to meet your eyes. It's the saddest sound you've ever heard from her, and you've listened to her sobs and screams. 

Moira's standing over you, hands on her hips. You may have a good six inches on her at least, but she's a coiled spring of ferocity ready to explode. She's protecting her friend—still—from you. Suddenly it becomes clear that theirs is a bond that you've only made stronger somehow.

 

 

* * *

 When you slide into your empty bed that night, after taking longer than usual to get home, the book June had been reading the other day is still on the stack beside you. You can still see the smirk on her face as she read it, chuckled, and looked up at you knowingly. The dog-eared page is easy to find. 

Whether it was a message to you, or not, you'll never know, but right there on the page, a scathing criticism.     

  

> _“You think you know yourself when you live alone, but you don't, you believe you are a calm untroubled or at worst melancholic person, you do not realise how irritable you are, how any little thing, the wrong kind of touch or tone, a lack of speed in answering a question, a particular cast of expression will send you into apoplexy because you are unchill, because you have not learnt how to soften your borders, how to make room. You're selfish and rigid and absorbed, you're like an infant.”_

 

You smack the paperback novel closed and toss it into the corner. Fuck her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The passage in Serena's book is from Crudo, by Olivia Laing.  
> https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/38212166-crudo


	8. wane the aches just a bit; the puissant heat, wind can’t abate

After a while, you stop counting the days without her, without both of them. The weather is warmer, so much warmer and so you've been told that summer is like this. One day it is snowing, the next your feel like you're boiling from the inside out. People used to make sarcastic jokes about the weather shifts in Toronto, how frigid it would be in winter versus its jungle-like properties in high summer, you learn from Marnie. She's fanning her face with a piece of paper as she tells you the history. When people starting dying _en masse_ from cold exposure in their houses during winter or heatstroke in the shade during summer, the weather finally stopped being funny. Nobody jokes about the heat anymore. 

You don't remember Boston ever being like this, but there you had the breezy ocean near enough, not to mention your luxury townhouse with the latest HVAC tech. 

Summer isn't nice when you live on the 16th floor in an apartment with no air-conditioning and surrounded by nothing but the heat sinks of concrete towers and black asphalt roads. There's very little to distract you from the oppressive heat, except hard liquor, cigarettes, and the local dive bar that you'd turned to one night out of sheer desperation to forget. You drank shitty vodka until you couldn't see clearly or walk without stumbling, and something about losing yourself so completely brought with it even more memories of her, so you turned to straight rye whiskey. Utter numbness. You no longer want to be you, to be real. Time passes easier for the nonexistent and fiction feels no pain, so to be a character in a book remains the only escape.

He may have been a fellow refugee, or maybe just a Canadian stuck in limbo, but you'd ended up on your back, eyes squeezed shut trying to block out the spinning and the foul smell of his hot beer-soaked breath against your cheek. Nothing feels like it should, nothing like it used to once. His hands are too large and rough as he fails to notice the thick scars across your legs and back, his face too coarse, his body too heavy, pressing you into an unfamiliar and soiled rooming house mattress. It smells like old sweat and leftover fried chicken when you try to push your face into a pillow. His intrusion into your body makes every muscle revolt and clench with the vaguest wisp of memory, and only a focused sort of willpower allows you not to retch. He's not soft where he should be, and your hands are lost, searching for something else and of course you never manage to come. That's not even an option; he doesn't care and frankly, neither do you, not really. It's not something you want to share with a stranger. Still, you put the poor experience down to the heavy drinking, and drinking far too much on an empty stomach.

Once your hangover passes, you return to the bar, find him again, and after another session of sucking back whiskey until the world is blurry, you blindly grasp again for any connection with another human being, no matter how empty. Each time you try the experiment, it fails more miserably than the last. You never bother to learn his name at any point during the handful of piteous encounters. The only thing he leaves you with is semen on your inner thighs and bedsheets. Instead of wasting laundry soap, you end up tossing the sheets down the garbage chute just to wipe the smell and feel from your mind.  

Your final desperate and sloppy attempt doesn't fare much better and you're not even sure if she's a prostitute or just lost like you, but she never asks for anything except your name—and you give her a lie, too ashamed of the truth. There's an emptiness that is impossible to fill; with her, it makes you long for June even more, tearing at you inside. Loose strings are frayed all around you and slip through your fingers every time you attempt to grab hold of them, and bundle them back together. Nothing tethers you anymore, and not even your body feels like it belongs to you any longer. When she leaves, you finish the bottle of cheap white wine in your fridge and do everything in your power not to cry. 

You'll never understand why other women turn to meaningless sex with strangers to fill the holes inside them. It's just made yours even bigger, deeper, blistered and raw. 

Estrangement is a deep and murky pond where you reach out for her in the darkness and feel nothing but cold water slip from your grasp, and the clenching of your fists is futile. Your own skin is numb, chilled and nothing warms it except the punishing burn of grain alcohol. Staring into the dark ring of scum in your toilet bowl after throwing up more vodka than you could handle, the only thing that aches is your heart and there's no cure for that, especially not like this. When you rest your cheek against the cool plastic of the seat and your eyes slip shut, your vision swims with golden blonde waves and the memory of her one afternoon, the way she rolled over, twisted nude in your sheets and hair a mess, with a sated grin on her face. You'd fallen onto the mattress beside her, teeming with something intangible and significant, and you'd probably fallen in other ways at that moment too, although you can't linger on that possibility now without retching again. Something about the way that memory tingles in your chest makes you want to pull yourself out of the swamp of dive bars and indifferent stranger's attentions.

Still, it takes a few weeks to get out of bed any earlier than mid-afternoon, even longer to start actually caring about what you're putting in your body again. Out goes the fast food and bad liquor; in comes the fresh groceries. Eventually.

You've got your refugee subsidy coming in now and it's not a lot, barely enough to even survive on here with the exceptionally high cost of living, but it's better, even cheque to cheque. It gives you a sense of calm occasionally not to be constantly fearing for your life and that's allowed your ego to wriggle out across the typed page. 

The first article you submitted to a local paper was about Gilead's origins in a way only someone who was there could know. Of course, you'd used a male pseudonym. It was published the next week, and letters to the editor in response took a full page of the paper. The second piece, again under a different pseudonym but a female one, was an explanation about why women went along with Gilead, especially once the American government fell. Part of it wasn't exactly the truth as you know, more how it was relayed to you via all those conversations with other Wives like the quietly feral Madeline Prue, Naomi Putnam, Grace Scott, Sonia Cushing, even your own mother. Everyone was always very careful, but the little things came out, even when they were actively withheld. 

The third time you pen an article, in a bigger magazine submission, you use your real name and something about it feels like falling from space, like leaping off a building and seeing the concrete speeding towards you. It's going to kill you, one way or another. Inevitably. 

It's personal. Too personal probably. 

Before you even submit it, you know they'll hate you. The people reading are the same voices that haunt your nightmares, your daydreams, and your every waking thought. They all want you broken and miserable, if not dead. They're all Moiras and Emilys. None of them are Junes. 

Following your unofficial coming out as maligned Gileadean debutante in the press, you're invited to speak about your experiences at various human rights group meetings, Canadian government committees, and universities. Of course, there are protests, all the Moiras and Emilys and Lukes are there to let their opinions known but it's nothing like those pre-Gilead years. Most of the people are just morbidly curious, mostly Canadians who are aiming to understand and trying to figure out how to prevent the same virus from overtaking their own society. The protests are smaller, quieter, because you're technically on their side now but they still cry for your blood. 

The American refugee centres avoid engaging you in any way and prefer to act as if you don't exist. You're still banned from any support groups. Meanwhile, Marnie insists that all mail for you comes to the  office, not your apartment. Just in case. (Just in case they're trying to kill you already.)

 

You've written 2 more pieces in your own name by the time you finally talk about June, in any detail. You never call her by name, you never talk about the specific intimacies of your relationship leaving it with vague swathes of innuendo, you never dare admit what's happened since. It's 700 words of regret laced with an underlying smugness because there is only one person you need to read this, and he's somewhere south of the militarized border that separates freedom from fascism. You want him to seethe, to roar, to cry, so you shamelessly play up the life you have now, implying that you and June are closer, more inseparable, than you truly are. You want him to believe Nicole is yours now. Not his, and never really was. 

June is yours, and never was his. 

You're ruthless in your rhetorical castration, each nudge another notch in your belt of his emasculation. It may not physically scar like the wounds he whipped onto your skin, but it'd better feel just as dreadful. You need him to remember this punishment. And you can't fucking wait for his fellow men to read it. They'll pretend they've not seen it, nor speak of it to his face, but they'll never look at him the same ever again either. 

 _Commander Waterford_ , they'll whisper outside his presence. _Isn't he the man whose wife ran off with the Handmaid?_

They'll snicker before meetings, _Pathetic. Fred couldn't even keep his wife under control, let alone the Handmaid_.

They're men so you know he'll always have a place at their brotherhood table, but he'll never have the same respect deep down, ever again. He'll always come up just that little bit short. 

And everyone will secretly know why. 

 _Avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord._  

So intoxicated are you by this salacious, hubristic fantasy that you fail to consider how June will read it, or how she may feel being used in such a way. (Again.) Perhaps she'll be proud to be part of it, perhaps she'll feel betrayed. Quite frankly, it doesn't matter to you any longer since she's no longer around to remind you. 

You snag yourself a regular writing gig out of all that honesty. It's not much money of course, barely enough to cover the constant coffee it takes you to get through the process. At least it gives you a reason to crawl out of bed during the day. Wallowing had become quite addictive. 

But all the written words in the world don't push away the stinging cloud of loneliness that has settled around your life like napalm. You may not think of her or Nicole everyday. You may not even consider how much is missing, but you can feel it all the same, hanging, dripping. Toxic like the mould slowly growing in your bathroom.   

Sometime later, Marnie hands you a letter that stands out from the rest of the fanmail and hatemail you receive to the centre. There's no return address, and no postage. Only your name is scrawled across the front of the envelope. 

The small note inside is not signed either but you'd recognise that handwriting anywhere.

On it, three simple words: _Good for you_. 

Your mother is the last person you would have expected to be proud of the choices you've made, especially the more recent treasonous and sinful ones. And you have no idea how she of all people managed to get a letter to you this quickly. Nothing about her during your last visit gave you even the slightest hint she was doubting Gilead. After all, she had laughed loudest at the gruesome gossip. 

You long to tell her you love her, that you'll get her out one day and she can come to Canada, see how happy everyone is and have her meet Nicole. Your mind wanders into the vision of a small bungalow again, with toys on the front porch, Nicole laughing in the grass and June standing next to you instead of Fred as your mother steps out of a taxi. How would she take that? 

In your memory, you can still smell the burning butane of tiki torches from Walmart as you marched with your parents through the streets of your Midwestern town. You can hear their snickers, chants,  and see the way they waved those signs outside the courthouse. You weren't much older than Nicole is now when Brent Brand, a gay teenage boy, was found dead in a ditch and nobody cared; he got what he deserved, she had said with venom behind each syllable. You were five years old when Marty Ray Withers got away with stabbing Darrell Webber to death. You'd been dragged on a roadtrip in the aftermath, for the first time leaving Indiana. You can still hear your mother's screams in your ear, each of those rallies just like the last: _Procreation, not recreation_! _Man's job: Obey God_! You remember your preacher standing alongside your father, chanting, a big red sign in his hands reading, _God hates fags._  The way they said it with such conviction, it seemed like it was true.

You agreed. Of course, you did. They were so proud of you, and it felt like validation. So, later, as a teenager, you begged to come along with them when they decided to go to Laramie, Wyoming in 1998. Your mother had grinned at your enthusiasm, and told you that a good man named Fred Waterford wanted to meet you there. She'd set up a coffee date for you in the town. As you sipped on a hot chocolate, blushing profusely and fidgeting in your seat in the presence of a magnetic man with striking blue eyes, your father made placards for you and your brother to hold at the rally later outside the funeral: _Matt in Hell_. 

Dad is dead now; he died before his dream of a Gilead-like state could even be born. Your brother is a high-ranking Commander in what was once Provo, Utah, a particularly heavy Gilead stronghold. While your focus had always been on pro-life, anti-abortion first and foremost, you've screamed, “ _Procreation, not recreation_!” occasionally at your own anti-feminist rallies once upon a time. And you also had willingly accepted endorsements and money from entities like the Indiana Family Institute, of which your mother was an executive member for a while. You followed her lead and put an “X” next to Mike Pence and all men like him, every time you saw their names on a ballot. 

So, you wonder what exactly your mother means now, and how she would interpret the articles you've written about June if she could read them, if she _has_ read them. Would she take back her letter if she knew the whole sordid truth? What would she say if you admit you'd found God not through scripture but rather between the thighs of a woman? 

Maybe she has been changed by Gilead. You have a hard time believing it would do that to her, as it seemed to be her paradise. But then, you would have had a hard time believing Fred would ever lay a hand on you, ever lash you with his belt, ever rape and mutilate you for status. You never would have believed anything that has happened, what you're capable of or anything you've done. 

For some reason, this particular note inspires you to sit down at your laptop and type out your most scathing, most revealing article yet about the cogs in Gilead's machines. You call out the men behind the curtain, by name. There's enough in your brain to fill volumes of books but you choose the best, juiciest bits to share with Gilead's enemies around the globe. Following the email to the paper with your new article attached, you draft yet another one for the American government. You mention Mark Tuello. You talk about Hawaii. You remind them that the intel you have is above and beyond anything they could possibly know. (You resist asking them why they've ignored you thus far, why they've let you believe in hope and settle into this new life, when the other shoe will finally drop.) And you promise to hand yourself over for the crimes you have committed against the country. 

This one has you hovering with doubt over the SEND button. 

 _Draft saved at 15:36_. 

You change some of the punctuation, and rearrange a few words. (God, you'd kill for an editor.) 

 _Draft saved at 15:58_. 

You stare at the screen. At exactly 4 PM, you finally press send and take a long breath. 

They'll come for you soon. It's absolutely inevitable that after all this; they'll be pressured to do something. Serena Joy Waterford will not be allowed to continue to live freely amongst the victims of her own system. You know how it goes, you've read all the online comments. 

Before that happens, you know there's one more article that has to get published no matter what the future holds for you. It may not be as incendiary as your previous ones, and it's far more personal. But if you have no other way to say it, so be it. If it's the last public words anybody hears from you, that is enough. You wrote one of these for Fred as the sole audience. 

This last one is for and about _her_  alone.

When it's done—all 2,472 words of it—you're pretty certain you've invented a new form of literature. You still keep her real name out of it, and her relationships to others. Only her and you are the important characters in this story; everyone else is just the ornaments on the periphery, there for colour. It's part memoir, part fairytale, part sonnet, part religious treatise, part horror, and part love letter, all done in a prose you've never known was inside you. With everything, you really could use an editor, but maybe the vague postmodern stream of consciousness style will give it all a sense of authenticity. All you really care about is her reading it. 

(A nasty part of you can't wait for it to make it to Fred's email too.) 

You don't shy away from the words that had terrified you for so many years: _gender traitor_. This is what you are, in every sense imaginable. As much as you know it was meant for defining a depraved sexuality in Gilead, far more has it become clear that's not the type of traitor you are. You've committed treason against your entire gender. Every single woman in the goddamn country, including yourself. That is something that took years to wrangle, and really, you have to give credit to a grad student that pointedly asked you about the phrase and your complicity during a small talk with a group of university masters students a week back. You hadn't known how to respond to the veiled accusation, staring blankly, dumbly, at a room full of young women who knew far more than you ever had.

 

 

* * *

 Two days later, your phone rings. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end and a cold shiver ripples through your body, even without caller ID. 

“Hello?” 

“Luke moved out. Are you happy yet?” 

Maybe it's imagined, but you can swear your heart just fluttered at the sound of her voice, regardless of how angry she sounds. Before you can even respond, she's on a tirade about how Hannah is going to be damaged by this, how their family is broken, how selfish you are, how you've ruined everything. anything she can think to throw in your direction seems to come out at the speed of light, like she's been holding in all in for way too long. All you can think is how good it is to have her speaking to you again. 

“And that stupid article? Thanks a _fucking_ lot, Serena.” 

So, she read it. You could always count on Moira and her work at the refugee centre to keep abreast of all the news about Gilead, including all the gross shit they didn't want to hear. 

“You really can't help yourself can you? Just one fucking thing after another. You're unbelievable! Luke's going to see that, you know.” 

For a brief moment, you wonder if you missed your true calling as the other woman who is exceptionally talented at sabotaging other couples' relationships. It seems to come so effortlessly, so naturally that you may as well embroider a scarlet A on all your clothes. You sigh a hollow long sound and when she pauses just to catch her breath, you manage to pounce. “Did you read it?” 

That's the only thing you really care about, to be frank. With all the willpower you have, at least you managed not to ask, ‘ _So what did you think?’_  

“Of course I fucking read it. _Everyone_ read it! And guess what, everyone knows exactly who you're talking about. My daughters are going to read it one day, and that's going to be one hell of a conversation. Thanks for that too, by the way.” 

If she saw your shrug at her words, she might kill you with her bare hands. Moving into your bedroom, you lie down and stare at the ceiling, phone glued to your ear. This is what girls did in the movies and on television. This is what you did when you and Fred started dating. Long hours spent relaxing on the phone just enjoying each other's conversation. Too bad the subject of this talk isn't at all friendly; it's not even polite. 

The only thing you can think to ask that has no way of her turning the blame back on you immediately runs out before you can stop it. “When did your husband leave?” 

There's a long pause, as if she's assessing what your motives are for asking such a question. With a sigh, you know she's shaking her head. “A few weeks ago.” Far before your article had even come into existence. At least that was one less thing to guilt you with. 

In the background, a car horn sounds and she curses under her breath. 

“Where are you?” 

Immediately, she snaps, “Why do you care?” 

Despite the fact she's actually speaking to you again, there's no warming her up to you anymore. 

“Look, Serena,” she begins, her tone shifting down a gear. “You have managed to destroy my entire life. I had one chance left to rebuild it, and you just went in and burned the whole thing to the _fucking_ ground. I actually thought you'd changed.” 

You wonder what sort of life it was that she was building where she'd lie to her husband almost daily to show up at your crappy refugee apartment and fuck you and get fucked until both of you were exhausted. You spent more quality time with Nicole than he ever did. What kind of reimagined, impossible life was it that had her melting into you in public, holding hands, not backing away when you'd kiss her right there in the open park and then returning home to live something altogether the opposite? Was that really a life worth maintaining? It was one giant lie after another, but if you call her on that, she'll definitely get even angrier. 

“I could have started over.” 

Another brazen lie. 

There is no starting over for any of you. Not a single American from Gilead can start over as if nothing has happened. Everything about life is just continuing on, pushing through, coping as best anybody can. She knows that, deep down. That's why she'd show up at your door in the middle of the day with no regret and no shame, only to put her mouth on yours, pull your body under hers. Coping. Surviving.

“Sorry,” you try, knowing your own lies. The flat tone shows her exactly how apologetic you are. There's a familiar bell in the background somewhere that makes your skin crawl. One of Nicole's toys, most likely. God, you miss that little girl and her silly smiles. 

There's a loud thumping on your door, maniacal. It thunders through the entire apartment and you half-expect neighbours to come running out, until you remember the building you're in and how that sort of thing is a regular occurrence. No one would blink an eye if someone decided to bash down your door and murder you right here in your bed. The pounding doesn't cease and you know eventually something will have to break (Please, not your face). 

Somehow, you don't manage to put together that the sound is so loud because it's also coming through her end of the phone line. Not until you get to your door and look out. She stands there in your doorway, her eyes hard and her jaw set tightly, as if she going to grind her teeth so hard they'll end up as dust. You've seen that look before. 

 _Fuck you, Mrs. Waterford_. 

“Fuck you, Serena.” The growl is deep, wounded, but feral. Opening the door to her likely was not the best decision you've made and you've no time to think about how ridiculous you must look at 4 PM in your pajamas again, in that same horrible souvenir West Virginia tank top she makes fun of you for wearing so often. _If looks could kill_ , you think. 

“I just asked for one single, fucking thing. _Just one_. From you.” 

You bristle at her purposeful ignorance, glaring at her. “And I gave you far more than that.” 

You've seen that look before, the lightning flashing in her eyes, back when you had your hand around the soft skin of her throat, choking back your own tears as you snarled out: _92 days_. (She'd left you for 92 days; 92 days of worrying and fear about your baby, about her body.) There's no need for you to put a finger on her at all anymore to evoke the same reaction. 

“Are you kidding?” Her incredulity doesn't make sense. “You stole us from our lives and destroyed our country and I'm supposed to fall at your feet for doing the bare minimum?” A disbelieving laugh sputters out as she paces back and forth across your small living room. “So fucking generous!” 

Now, she's just getting on your nerves. It takes only a few large steps to get into her space, to tower over her. Physical intimidation has never been difficult for you against other women. You could throw her against the wall, hold her by the neck again, smack that fucking sneer off her face. None of that would be hard for you at all. But, and surprising to even you, the urge to lash out at her with your body isn't particularly strong anymore. It takes little willpower to resist the urge and part of you is flooded with relief at that realisation. 

She's nothing if not defiant. Her eyes are unapologetic, her back ramrod straight, chin up. You've lost all power over her somewhere between here and Gilead. 

She's an iceberg and all you've got is a handheld ice pick. 

“I let you take Nicole,” you begin, ready to recite the few good deeds you've used as currency ever since. “I didn't have to.” 

Her eyes narrow. A shake of her head. You both know full well that you did; there's no way you could have let her grow up in Gilead, with Fred. It would be easy to call you out on that lie, yet she stays quiet and waits, knowing her silence will make you far more uncomfortable. 

“I got _you_ out, I saved Hannah!” And there it is. Your one and only trump card. There is so little you've done in your life that anybody can genuinely thank you for. 

A laugh erupts from her lips, and she looks away before staring hard at you again. “Really?” 

Clenching your teeth, you nod. The sparkle in her eye is not mischief or humour; it's fury. 

“You did it for _you_ , Serena. Nobody is going to believe your bullshit.” She points at your computer. “That article? Bullshit. You didn't do anything for me, or us, or Hannah, or women. You know who does things, sacrifices for other people? Moira. _Moira_ throws herself into the fire _every single_ _fucking_ day to help clean up the disaster you created! You?” She pushes you out of her space with an open hand. “You are full of shit.” 

Of course this all had to come out eventually. Her real feelings. Distraction sex could only cover up the ugliness for so long. She's not even done yet and your hand clenches at your side with your indignant anger having no outlet. 

“As if you'd ever leave without me. And I'd never leave without Hannah. You needed me to get to Nicole.”  She pushes a snort out, her skin reddening, so much rage under her breath. “If you could have come to Canada and just been reunited with Nicole, without me, you would have. Don't pretend you did any of this for me or _my_ daughters.” 

Licking your lips, you want to argue. There is so much more to it than that. When you sulk around your apartment here, ruminating on the multitude of reasons for your misery, her absence always comes into your consciousness. Yes, Nicole does as well but it's a blatant lie to deny June's impact. When you wake up in your empty bed, it's not Nicole you find yourself longing for next to you. 

If she's already made up her mind and decided on your motives, you're not sure you see the point of this at all. Rolling your eyes at her juvenile tantrum and mentality, you only have one remaining question. “Why are you even here?” 

Her mouth snaps shut, shoulders slumping as she shakes her head. She won't meet your gaze now, instead focused on the cloudy sky outside. Her voice is resigned and sad. “I don't know.” 

The truth hangs in the air between you two like the yellow smog over the city, suffocating. And just the same as heavy pollution, it seems to be irritating her eyes. A glaze of water is growing and the sight makes your chest tighten. Tears aren't supposed to come so easily anymore; you're both meant to be beyond that by now. This is Canada, it's supposed to be freedom, it's an escape from the snare of everything Gilead represented. Yet even so, just like then, you can't seem to stop making each other cry. 

Pointlessly, hurtfully, inevitably. 

There's something that you've never once attempted to do, and you're still not certain if this is the right time to experiment. (The only thing you can picture being a worse decision is nothing at all.) So, slowly, as if cornering a frightened animal, you move towards her. Her blue eyes are mistrustful and still wounded. It's that spark you'll never be able to extinguish. But you persevere because she's always been your courage, even when you resented her. Before her, you had none, only the contagion of pride and greed for power shared by Fred, perhaps inspired by him. That wasn't bravery; it was a fiendish lust for control. 

Your hands are gentle as you pull her into your arms, awkwardly almost. It's an unnatural behaviour for you. Comforting grown adults, especially women, has never been a strength of yours, and you preferred to stand aside, stare wordlessly, and pretend that your stoicism was infectious and desired. It's not as if you're incapable of care or concern—you're a master of holding hands, forehead kisses, and other performative trinkets of affection—but this action is unfamiliar, and that begets shame at your own recognition that normal human beings are not like you. 

An initial stiff acceptance softens as her body relaxes and her arms loosely loop around your waist. She fits right in, and you know you were designed by God for this. It can't be real, you think with some sense of awe because all your nightmares about this moment had a knife stabbed into your stomach, or claws raking across your back until you're bloodied and weak. It's hard to believe she's not lashing out as she probably should, she probably deserves. Revenge and June never had been a particularly tight match, thank God. She seemed to take her Bible verses more seriously than you ever have,  _Do not repay evil for evil._

“I hate myself. I hate you so much,” she whispers into your shoulder with a hard snap of her words. “So much.” 

You don't doubt it. 

“Me too,” you echo back, a little colder and louder. And you're not lying either. There will always be a small part of you that resents her for her interference in your life that up until her appearance, may not have been pleasant, but it was mildly bearable and godly. Now you're a heretic and traitor and constantly doubting if God even exists. You live in a terrible apartment in Canada, welfare paycheque to paycheque with the entire country vying for your blood instead of a big mansion with servants and stability. 

Her arms tighten around you despite her words, leaning heavily against you. For a long minute, there's only the wisp of breathing passing between you. The steady rise and fall of her body manages to calm your own racing heartbeat. 

“Emily moved out yesterday,” she mumbles into your chest. “She hates me.” 

 _Well_ , you want to say, _she hates everyone, including herself_. But, you bite your tongue and swallow instead, knowing this was coming for a long time. 

“Your latest article really didn't help things.” Oh, there's the ongoing blame for speaking your truth. It seems like what you thought had been a necessity turned out to backfire. “She really, _really_ hates you.” There's a snicker in the words as she shifts closer, seeming to burrow against you, clutching tighter at the loose fabric of your ugly tank top. 

“Wouldn't be the first person,” you mutter, nonplussed. There was likely a library full of names of people who really hate you. Much like Moira, Emily's attitude had never been a mystery to you and you'd avoided her at all costs. Especially knowing how she had a habit of murdering Gileadean authoritarian figures, and there is nothing scarier to you than an unstable, bloodthirsty woman with homicidal tendencies stuck in a room with you. Likely, any normal person would keep their distance as it is. None of them are as indirectly responsible for said unhinged lunatic's current state as you. 

She ignores your unsympathetic response and continues. “They're moving to the west coast, closer to Sylvia's parents now that Emily's treatment program is done here.” She sighs. “Hannah's going to lose her best friend.” 

Searching your mind for something to say, you come up blank, especially since you think it's a good idea to be around family support. And you're glad she's gone, truth be told. If only Moira would fuck off as well. 

“They're moving a new family in with us.” The trepidation is abundantly clear in her voice. 

She moves back, out of the embrace that you were just beginning to get the hang of, and runs her hands roughly over her forehead. Her breath comes out in the hiss of an irritated, but tired, snake. The sofa creaks as she takes a spot on the arm and you lower down at the other end, far enough away that you aren't tempted to reach out and touch her. For the first time since she's arrived, you get to take her in. There's a sheen of dried salt on her forehead from the heat, and her hair is a bit frizzy, slightly longer and more unkempt than you remember it. Dark circles define her face, much like they did back in Gilead. Despite the blazing summer sun pouring through thin ozone, her skin is so pale it almost seems green. Her faded t-shirt has a hole in the sleeve at the shoulder and seems stretched, ill-fitting. 

She is the very definition of exhaustion. 

“Are you okay?” Perhaps the question would be laughably sophomoric if you could think of anything else of relevance. 

All June gives you is an arched eyebrow and pointed glare before looking away, to nothing. Of course she isn't. Her husband's left, one of her best friends has moved away, a strange group of people is going to entrench themselves in her home, and she's currently at the apartment of the one woman that she hates and who could arguably be to blame for all of it. And she can't think of anywhere else to go. There will never be any escape from you or you from her, from the past, and from this baneful companionship that has sprouted from the cesspool of Gilead. The walls of this pit are slick, polished like the marble floors of Gilead's great halls of injustice and as equally insurmountable. So, you huddle with her down below, and really, it's not the worst thing you can imagine. Thinking back to the weeks without her and the miserable, lonely life you built as you attempted to scale the slippery sides, it becomes all too terrifyingly clear. She's all you want. You're all she can get, all she can live with.

Finally she sighs again. “Great, Serena,” she says to the empty air but there's a hint of moisture gathering in her eyes, in a way that seems to be pleading you to let her go, or for herself to let you go. “Just great.” 

She will always end up right back here, with you. Miserable at best. A melancholic shroud drapes over her, or defeat perhaps, and you recall the way she was back in Gilead when Aunt Lydia had finally broken her. Her silence now is all too familiar to then, smothered. Leaning back into the cushions, you sigh, allowing the smog to settle over you as well.

 

 

* * *

 The next morning, when your phone rings, you don't even need Caller ID. Your tea is cooling on the table next to you as it rings, and rings. It's best to steady your nerves before jumping in. By the time you answer, there's nobody there. A few minutes later, a text message beeps for your attention. 

 _It's not a greenhouse but there's a bay window here that would be perfect for your stupid plants._  

Your hands are shaking too much to respond.

 

 

* * *

 One of two whines wakes you every morning: an old fan oscillating at just that one angle, or, Nicole needing attention. Perhaps it should bother you, and it likely will when the novelty wears off but right now, only two weeks later, it's still new and beautiful. Your bed is warm, occupied, and that's the best part of waking up like this, despite the interruption to a dreamless sleep. There had only been a handful of instances where you'd been able to wake up next to another human being in the last 5 years. 

Every single one of those had been her. 

And each morning now feels like a nightmare you have yet to truly wake from because it's dream logic, the way the human mind makes complete nonsense seem real in dreams. Even now you have difficulty putting the pieces together about how you've managed to end up back here, with her and your daughter. Nicole's yours? You have no idea when that happened, but June doesn't twitch with irritation any longer when you say those words and claim possession. Whether you've broken her down into acceptance or she willingly has given you a gift, that's still unclear as well. Perhaps you're both still stuck at the bottom of that goddamn dark pit so you both may as well make the most of it. Despite everything, despite the guilt that continues to eat away inside, it's still you next to her in the morning and it doesn't make a lick of sense to anybody, not even you. Your lips remain sealed every time the urge to question it arises, sewn closed with the fear that even a hint of doubt will cause you to wake from this dream, or nightmare, whichever it actually is. This life of limbo, much like the hours you've spent submerged in her, clothes still intact in this very room, just communicating in a world of no time with lips, sighs, and hands. After all, _purgatory is Hell with hope_.

She has morning breath and often sleeps like a bear, overtaking the bed, sprawled out and mouth open, a shiny string of drool slowly forming a translucent puddle on her pillow. 

Occasionally she'll elbow you in the back, in the middle of a dream (or nightmare), impressing a new bruise each time, and you'll want to lash out to return the favour. But you can't quite bring yourself to hurt her anymore. (Not when she's given you this finally.) Other times it'll be you who wakes in the night, gulping soundlessly for air and trembling like a newborn deer, desperately clawing at her to ground yourself in the real world. Sometimes you're the one who's crying; sometimes it's her. Even more often, it's both. 

Today, the grinding mechanical squeal of the fan brings you to awareness of the new day. She's still in a deep sleep beside you, breathing shallowly and stuck in a bad dream, over and over. A flutter of her fingers tickles against your arm. Across the room, Nicole's fast asleep too. It won't be long until she's old enough to sleep with the big kids. 

For a moment you allow her to sleep, wrapped in whatever unconscious Hell she's in, not because you want her to suffer, but rather because you're terrified that when she opens her eyes, she'll just see the same face as in her nightmare. Her arm jerks, like she's resisting or fighting and all you know how to do is shift closer, shake her a little, pull her in. It all has to be very gentle, you learned the hard way. She's almost feverish, it seems, as you curl up behind her. That could just be the sweltering early morning heat since the fan is almost always for Nicole alone. Her skin is sticky with sweat, even on her bare forearms and as you press your nose into her hair, behind her ear, it's almost like you can smell her fear. Sickly, a bit sweet, musky, all at once. A rush of all the wrong kinds of hormones. 

She always shakes when she comes to, and today is no exception. It's how you know she's finally woken up. It'll be another minute or so until that heat she was radiating turns to a clammy sheen. A hand pulls your arm tighter, her short nails pressing small crescents into your skin. When you squeeze her just that little bit more, the sound of a sad ghost escapes her lungs. 

There is nobody in the house with the exception of Nicole that isn't haunted by nightmares of Gilead. You've heard Hannah and Moira's screams, Erin's cries, the new family have their own wails of fear. If she's not howling, she only sighs. They're long, mournful and hollow. 

You don't bother with platitudes. There's no truth in telling her everything is okay because it isn't, it won't be, and it can't be ever again. You merely hold her in silence until her tremors cease and she returns fully to the world of the living. 

Her fingers clamp around yours, dragging a mutilated hand deftly over her breast then pushing it down. She guides your hand under the elastic waistband of her shorts until you can feel the soft curls. “Please, Serena,” she whispers, her voice tight in pleading. She keeps her hand covered over yours, just in case you're hit with a wave of reluctance, or guilt. “Please.” 

You've never understood how she can do this, want _this_ after waking from horrors, and you've never asked her to explain either. You're the only one she can ask for this unhealthy cure without concern, or shame. You may not understand why, but you do sense the urgency and need for it. Maybe it's to push the visions away, to ignore them, to chase them out with light and distraction. Maybe it's just simply to forget, as it always is. But she never lets you loose. Every attempt to squirm away or to free yourself from this ends in futility, partly because you don't know how to say no anymore and partly because you don't want to say no. So your lips slide to the nape of her neck, kissing and nipping a trail across her skin until she shudders. As she holds fast to your hand, you delve in and she's never that wet, not after nightmares, but gradually she relaxes as your mouth leaves hot marks on her shoulders, on her neck, and elicits the gasps of pleasure you've become so accustomed to drawing out. 

This sex is never rough, or fast, or hard—and in this house, never loud anymore either. Instead, her hips rock slightly against your hand, she trembles again for a different reason and her breath comes laboured and faster. You remain as tender as possible under the circumstances. 

With a quiet sob, tears fall down her cheeks when she comes this time and you always wonder if she's thinking of him. 

It's not the first time you hate yourself.

 

 

* * *

 Moira slaps a bundle of papers down on the coffee table with a loud thwack. She does this now, when you're around. It's her new form of punishment since the silent treatment eventually ceased being effective, especially after she had walked in on you and June with her hands up your shirt and her mouth on your neck. Reality had been a tough teacher but it was enough to show Moira that it wasn't just talk, it wasn't some strange dream happening on the periphery of real life. Punishing you punishes June too so Moira had reluctantly acquiesced and toned down her pseudo-torture, but the waves of hatred have not abated. Instead, she has chosen to constantly remind you of all the horrors you've released throughout Gilead. It really doesn't matter if you had any hand in it at all, it's all your fault, every day. Essentially, you are the entire reason Gilead exists. And all those men in power? Virtually blameless. Of course they are. It's been that way since the Garden of Eden. 

These interruptions always grate on your nerves because Moira always waits until you're relaxed, comfortable, enjoying time with June. There's likely a part of Moira that is choosing this method on purpose in the same way a dog owner shows a puppy it's own shit in the house. 

 _Here, June. Look at what this monster of a woman has done. How can you continue to ignore this?_  

Sometimes however, like in this instance, June's hand reaches out and touches your leg, giving a short squeeze because unbeknownst to her best friend, this situation is bringing back much different memories. _That_ sound. It's the way you bent over a chair, the slap of Fred's belt, the way June was forced to watch, the stifled cries. A semi-public humiliation, much like this one. Nobody knows that except the two of you. 

It's fine, you assure yourself. You'd do the same, in truth.

Today, it's the biweekly roll-call of all the victims of hangings, particicutions, stonings, salvagings, other executions, and Colonies assignments. A morbid, guilty curiosity follows the survivors like you around and it reeks of shame that they are here, safe, while friends and family remain. June in particular is consistent in reading through the lists, always searching for names of people she knows. She mentions other Handmaids, old coworkers, and extended family when you ask her who she's searching for. You wonder if she's ever really looking for Nick. She'll never find his name on one of those lists as Guardians and Eyes aren't released officially; the militia are never to be doubted, never disloyal. Sometimes you think you should tell her the truth of what happened to him, or at least let her know that, as a Guardian, his name and fate will be classified, but perhaps the futile hope helps her. 

She huffs and flips page after page of names and fates, until she reaches the end, tossing it over to you.

“They slaughtered New York.” 

Her words feel like lead bullets and your breath gets lost for a long moment. New York. Your pulse races as you flip frantically through the package, falling upon the list of Wives and Commanders. It's pure carnage, page after page. Syracuse. Watertown. Ogdensburg. Clayton. Fort Drum. Utica. Canton. 

Right there, in black serif type, are the names of Madeline Prue and her Commander husband. Hanged. For treason, heresy, accomplice to kidnapping of a child, and defiance of the authority of God’s divine law. Their Martha too. It took the Eyes a long time, but they finally caught up with your trail, and in its wake is a savage littering of innocent bystanders. No doubt some of these names are the guards and teachers at Hannah’s camp, some are likely Econopeople and farmers along the way who had no contact with you whatsoever. Amongst the austere state buildings in Utica are the rotting bodies of those that helped you and June, and many more that didn't. The rest? Animal feed.

At the bottom of the next page, you see it and you feel sick. Your hands clench around the booklet, crumpling the edges. A paper cut slices across your thumb, pooling a shiny red droplet on the list. 

Fitting somehow that your mother's death is written in your blood. Beside her name, a sentence to hard labour in the Colonies until death. It’s a slow, tortuous type of prolonged execution. Perhaps the woman you'd known growing up deserves it, a part of you admits. She helped shape you, and you in turn made every bad choice. You built the world that came for her in the end. Maybe she should have known better before she built you, before she put your heart in the wrong place. 

But the note from Marnie's office with “ _Good for you._ ” scrawled in familiar penmanship, makes you second guess that. And she was your mother after all. 

A few lines down you see your cousin's name too, and her husband. Hanged. All for the same reason; all because of you. There had been months of feeling less than real, gripping tenuously at the thin threads of reality and not caring to do so. The stories claimed reality came crashing down, such a cliche. Sudden and forceful, it was over in mere seconds. For you, it always creeps up, stalking, tiptoeing around the shadows where you fail to look, so quietly you can't even hear it coming until it has you clamped tightly between its jaws. By then, it's always too late. Trapped by a thousand tiny cuts.  

A rasping, coarse panting is in the air around you and it's only when June takes the papers from your clammy hands that you realise it’s you, hyperventilating. The sight of you, unkempt and wild seems to shock Moira into silence and she steps back, away from the rabid, wounded creature you've become. Briefly, you meet her deep brown eyes and for the first time, you see concern behind the anger and fear. But, it flickers only briefly before extinguishing itself. 

Without another word, you’re on your feet, moving from the stifling room and upstairs to be with your daughter. 

You hadn’t given away a single detail about your escape from Gilead in your articles, but perhaps, you killed them all. The timing fits. You'd exercised revenge via words on a page, and he returned it with this list. Most men give flowers or chocolates, or maybe a pair of earrings if it's a particularly special occasion. Fred has truly given you something to remember him by: a massacre of the innocents in your name. A parting gift worthy of Gilead.

 

 

* * *

 Eleven days later, you ask Marnie for the most recent list from the northwestern bloc of Gilead before Moira can surprise you with it. You don't really know why you have such a foreboding chill as she hands you the thin stack. Your brother was the most pious foot soldier for the new regime, even in its infancy. He rose to Commander fairly easily and sustained a fair amount of power in what was Utah. In many ways, he was a more devout believer in Gilead than even Fred. 

Regardless, he was shot dead by firing squad three days ago. 

For apostasy. 

You'd simply laugh at the complete absurdity of that, if it wasn't your own brother rotting in a mass grave.


	9. fanned flames mock the proximity of the sun

Sweltering humidity soaks through the walls of the house. Kitchen tiles appear to be alive, sweating, with the glow of the barely rising sun. The world is quiet at 6 AM, especially here. At your apartment (that you haven't even been back to in over a week), people would be getting home from drug scores, afterhours clubs, and shift work or leaving to factory jobs. But here, it's peaceful. Upstairs, June is asleep and Nicole is dreaming in her crib, the fan blasting her with tepid air. The rest of the household are holed up in their dens, all sleeping away the oppressive heat of midsummer. 

A glass of cold water with a single ice cube rests on the counter top, half-full as the beads of condensation slowly grow and fall. A sparrow outside seems to sing a lullaby to the night in time with the dripping of the faucet. 

This twilight hour, alone, is the only time you can escape yourself and the trappings of despair that have accumulated at an accelerating pace lately. She tries, she tries so hard sometimes but even her touch is too familiar, to reminiscent of other nights. Nicole's face is another reminder. Every fucking moment is a souvenir of Gilead. It's like Fred is sitting on your chest every second of every day now, waving his pen and paper, cackling with pride at this final victory over you. 

There's something in your bones that is cold and filled with dread. 

You shouldn't have written those articles and shown him your hand. You shouldn't have rubbed his face in your being here, with her and Nicole. Part of you knows Canada is safe and beyond his greasy fingers, but still, it lingers, that threat that he's coming for her too (or you). Maybe it's just a traumatized imagination, but he's taken absolutely everything else from you and he'll come for her too, somehow. He always does. Eventually. It should have been more obvious that Fred always gets what he wants in the end, no matter the cost. That was a large part of his appeal to you, once upon a time.

“What are you doing down here?” 

The voice is sleepy but unmistakably Moira and immediately your skins begins to prickle, your maimed hand gripping at the chilled glass a little too tightly. “I could ask you the same,” you return, trying to channel every ounce of stoicism you have to cover the disappointment and shock. 

Moira moves to the cupboard herself, grabbing a glass and running the water cold until it overflows. Turning away from her, you stare silently at your own drink. The ice cube clinks as it cracks again. 

“What the hell?” 

You swing your head to the sound to catch Moira staring at your legs and you remember with a flush about these short shorts you've been wearing to bed in the hot weather. Before you can even turn away, she's next to you, lifting the hem of your tank top just enough to glimpse at the faded pink scars on your lower back as well. With a smack, you knock her hand away and backup brusquely against the fridge, out of her sight. 

“Don't touch me.” It's nothing less than a snarl, but your voice wobbles all the same. It's not even that it's Moira specifically; you've always been a careful and private person. You can't stand anyone looking at you, and especially not touching you there. Not those scars, not anymore. Not unless it's June, or you're very, very intoxicated. Since neither of those are true at the moment, the fear and the anxiety of her seeing and touching sends you back about three steps in the evolutionary ladder, into some feral creature you barely can recognise.

For moment, she simply stares at you as if she's found a missing piece of a puzzle, a missing link. A smug quirk of her lips rises and then fades quickly. You can practically hear her thoughts, if she lived in the same reality as you: _To the Lord belongeth vengeance and recompence; their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand_. Nobody like her would look upon your body and think, “Oh, poor Serena Joy.”  

She rests a hip against the edge of the kitchen table, considering your stiff demeanour carefully as the silence seeps into the space between you. “Waterford?” 

You nod. 

“ _Bastard_.” It's genuine. What you thought would be gloating is a subdued sort of acceptance instead. Her eyes are still hard, and there's no sympathy for you or your suffering, but there is the glimmer of empathy. Luckily, you've become accustomed to surviving on scraps. 

The sparrows outside fall silent as well and only the drip of the tap remains. For a long time, Moira sips her water and watches you, and you, well, your feet seem to be glued to the cool tiled floor. 

It's almost like she has to assure you there's never a chance at friendship of any kind. Not even camaraderie despite what she's been witness to. “You hurt her _again_ , Gilead, just once more and I'll fucking kill you.” 

She won't. You both know that, but there are other things worse and slower than death and surely Moira, like June (like every Handmaid), has first hand experience with many of them. She purses her lips, sending you one last glare before placing her cup down and moving past you.

 

 

* * *

Her skin is on fire, literally, bubbling and bursting in pustules, exploding blisters of sizzling blood, searing red then black. It chokes. Nicole is torn from your arms with a bloodcurdling scream that feels like it breaks your bones and she fades into black. Another piercing wail from June exists only for a brief moment, so high and so mournful that you cover your ears to avoid its curse. Your fingerless hands, mere stumps no longer with any usefulness, flail, nothing more than birds with clipped wings, flightless and heavy. 

She's so _red_. 

There's no point in screaming, and there never has been. You can't make a sound. Voiceless. A silent gaping hole that was once a mouth bursting full of words. Surrounded, you can see nothing but red, in flames and fever. While blue ribbons wrap your limbs tighter and tighter, pinning you in place, white bonnets with their telltale wings loosen and float like Chinese lanterns, reaching the sky and disappearing into nothing as only angels do. Around your wrists, the blue satin cuts into your skin, turning purple with your blood. There are so many fires and so many angels that you lose sight of which one she became. Tar drips slowly from your tear ducts the longer you stare into the night, and every blink gets harder than the previous until you're blinded entirely. Your own body has made you blind. The world is black again, and chaotically loud. _Flame under flame, till Time be no more_ , it screams and howls. 

A shiver inches up your spine, fraying the small hairs at the back of your neck, like the kiss of an old lover and you cry. Except your eyes are shut, tarred up, and painful. It's a blindness without release and you gulp in air, as if you'd never had any before. 

Hands ghost over your body, across your arms and down the indent of your waist and the nightmare releases its merciless grasp. 

The room is almost pitch dark but her warmth curls around you, finding its way into the coldest crevices of your body. Through your heaving breaths, you can smell her shampoo and Nicole's rash powder and the synthetic floral aroma of clean sheets. Nothing like burning flesh. Perhaps she'd said your name at some point but she says nothing more; you've both given up on such futile platitudes. She never asks what you see in your dreams. Instead, her lips linger against the nape of your neck again and she breathes deeply, her nose buried in your hair. You take her hand in yours and hold it to your chest where your rapidly beating heart seems unwilling to retreat. 

“Hey,” comes the quiet whisper in the darkness. She's so small, tucked up behind your large frame yet somehow you're the one who feels tiny and vulnerable, like she could break you in two with barely a push. Part of you loathes the sensation she invokes at baring witness to your night terrors. _Pathetic_ , you chide yourself. You're pathetic and desperate, and utterly dependent on the safety she offers. _Accursed of God_. 

You can still see the ghosts of those white bonnets floating in the black sky. Gilead never burned heretics or apostates, but your mind seems preoccupied with the idea when left to its own devices. Since learning of your family, it's only become worse. A shudder passes through your limbs, prickling the edges of your constantly frayed nerves. 

 _Here I am, Lord. Send me._  

You just want it all to stop for good.

 

 

* * *

 The most vocal anti-Gilean activists call themselves Asherah, after the ancient mythological wife of God, the queen of Heaven. (You smartly choose not to comment on the irony.) In reality, they're merely victims and survivors of Gilead: Handmaids, Marthas, Econowives, and those who managed escape before existential definition was imposed on them. Moira is a leading member, organizing support groups and protests and carrying with her the undercurrent of violent revolution one day. Like Mayday, they exist on the fringes but with far more fire than the main flow. Perhaps Wives would be welcomed by some of the women there, but no ex-Wife has ever dare tried. You are all Commanders with vaginas at worst, and willing accomplices to inhumanity at best. You are the enemy still, one of the seven heads of the beast. 

Canadians view the Wives slightly differently overall, like mere bystanders in a theocratic misogynistic regime, but none of them have the lived experiences of the many classes of women that you held some facsimile of dominion over. None of them were locked in empty rooms whilst you and your so-called friends ate canapés and gossiped. None of them were forcibly enrobed in scratchy red garments while you were kindly fitted with silks and satins. None of of those Canadian women had their wrists pinned to a bed by you as their Commander raped them every month. 

None of them were like her: an incessant undercurrent of seemingly casual resistance that ate away at your soul every single time she employed any of her smart-ass bullshit; a crown of thorns on your head not only because she was insolent and difficult to live with, but rather because she constantly reminded you of all that had been lost, a mockery of your superiority. She was the truth that called out your lie. (She _is_ the truth.) You once had been able to do the same, to ask for what you wanted, to express disbelief, fear, loneliness, joy. Gilead required the sacrifice not only of freedom and self-determination, but of essence. Every single time she recalled a memory of pre-Gilead, or rebelled in her little snarky ways, or presented that smirk and raised eyebrow on her face, you were reminded that your essence still existed as well. It was in there, rotting, infected deep inside you with no cure, like a poorly performed root canal slowly poisoning your bloodstream, drop by drop. With her around, you were forced to consider how your spirit was existentially in conflict with the exact society you helped create. 

So, not one of these free Canadians bore the gratuitous and violent anger of an impotent Wife chained by her own delusions. Not one of them, even the most outspoken of Canadians, reflects the same seething rage and pain you feel from Gilead survivors. 

Nobody from the outside will ever truly understand the experience. Maybe that's precisely why most couple reunifications often end in failure, why June and her husband—despite the love present—just could not work around it, why you have ended up in her bed, not him. 

Everyone has their own trauma but those onlookers, the ones limited to the outskirts of torture, don't have that _shame_. And guilt.

It's why you don't expect their polite questions and willful attempts at understanding you to last forever, not in this tinder box you've entered. The women here will take their cues from Gilead's victims, and part of you is disappointed that you know ahead of time how this will end. Human beings, especially those who have been injured and scarred by each other, essentially remain the same when emotions get involved. It's impossible to divorce rationality from experience however, and you know that better than anyone. 

With a baseball cap and dollar store sunglasses in place, you blend in with the crowd of survivors who are screaming, chanting, and cursing as their spokespeople take the microphone. Every so often, there's a stinging wail of feedback from the sound equipment and you wince; it sounds too much like your nightmares. These voices never cease. They yell and cry and sing, all together, all for one reason. Your head swims with the familiar intoxication of political rallies, and your body aches a little for something _more_ , for the pure orgastic energy of a full-on riot. This is building to something indefinite. Everyone can feel the pulsing forces surrounding the protesters as they sing in unison. 

You've been to more of these than you can even remember and rarely do recall any with this sort of energy that easily fade out. Something happens. Something big. It always does. Back in your youth, it would be a clash with police or counter-protesters, black eyes and bloody noses. As you grew older and took the megaphone in your own hands, it was tear gas and rubber bullets instead. 

The chant this time is about Gilead and it's hymnal qualities cause a shiver of uneasiness to creep up your spine. You know this tune, and no doubt every ex-Handmaid here is far too familiar with it. Once, late at night, you'd caught June idly humming it until she recognised what it was. The colour had drained from her face. Now all these women were singing it aloud, only with new words. It has become a war cry. 

There's mourning for the dead, weeping for the trapped, anger from the survivors. One woman is on stage reciting name after name, of all the dead women in Gilead's regime. They number in the hundreds of thousands by now, and there is no way to remain here while all are read. It will take months. 

You know how easy it is to kill people; you've watched a life end with the simple stroke of your husband's pen. You've seen the drownings of children, heard the crack of the gallows, smelled the pungent chemical stench of rounds of ammunition fired at Marthas, watched with both awe and horror at how quickly life evaporated in a matter of seconds. 

An idea, on the other hand, can be born in seconds, but takes decades to kill—if ever at all. When is the last time you heard of a human _killing_ a ghost? A nightmare? 

You're exhausted by the terrors at night, by waking to June's tampered sobbing, the hot knife of guilt and shame when Moira glances at you, the way your chest tightens and aches at the sight of Nicole's smile and all the children of Gilead whose similar smiles will be stripped from them. They die night after night while toxic snarling spectres of the powerful men you've known whisper, “ _Let the little children come to me_.” 

Moira is up there, talking, shouting down all her pain and you can hear the crack in her voice. Next to you, a small woman screeches out an affirmation. For a frozen moment, you can't breathe because the sound draws Moira's attention like a homing missile and her eyes latch onto you, seeing through the shitty disguise. 

“No fucking way,” she puffs into the microphone, almost as if she's forgotten she's in the middle of a speech. “Serena Joy Waterford, ladies! The one and only Miss Gilead!” 

Of course nobody would forget your name. When there's an attempted assassination on you at a rally, your name and ideas aren't easily dismissed or forgotten. A chorus of boos surrounds you like a thick mud, and you wish you could laugh at it all because this is hardly the worst treatment you've had in a crowd. The same woman from before screams, “Nazi cunt!” in your ear and you roll your eyes, grateful that you're wearing dark sunglasses. Almost a decade later and it's still the same song; Imagination certainly isn't their forte. 

Moira gestures you closer, to join her on the stage and for one perplexing minute, you recall the incident in the kitchen and think she's actually being kind, that she's on your side. 

As you come up to stand beside her, she eggs you on, baits you with sarcasm, mocks your presence here in general. By the sparkle in her eyes, you know this is like Christmas Day for her. When she hands you the mic, you finally realise your narcissistic mistake. While she may tolerate your presence in June's life as an inevitability now, these rallies are not for you, or anyone like you. 

Cutting your eyes at her smug grin during the choral wave of boos and curses, you begin to speak, unaware of what it is exactly this crowd wants to hear. You've read some of the hatemail before tossing them in the bin; you've been present when students and academics have questioned your morals, ethics, emotions, and logic. You even read the editorial responses in the papers that have published your pieces. There is overwhelming disdain for media allowing you a voice at all, but more so, there's an underlying disgust that you dare speak a word after what has happened. There is literally no world where you can exist free of your role in the infancy of Gilead. Nursing an idea, no matter how good or evil, requires nothing but steadfast commitment and an absence of fear, as one would studiously water a houseplant. It's just that terribly easy. With Fred whispering in your ear, holy scripture in your dreams, and the beastly screams of the birth crisis ricocheting off every broken mother's face you could see, devotion and adherence was easy to find. Without realising it, you'd become a mother yourself far before Nicole ever entered this world. Of monsters, of mutiny, of suffering. You hadn't given birth to the bones of Gilead, but you adopted the convictions that had been floating almost harmlessly within the extremist spheres of human anxiety. These weren't mere seedlings of belief by the time you got there; they were young plants, fresh, green and ready for fertilizer. You've always had a green thumb.

When these women see Gilead, your face, your book, and your husband are what explode violently and automatically into their minds. A titan of female betrayal. They see a woman who gave birth to a nation of nightmares.

And for good reason, perhaps, but you don't see it that way. All you recall is the silent fury at being made obsolete on the sole basis of your sex early in the republic's origins, especially after doing so much them. The closing of doors in your face. The way you squeezed into any empty space Fred left open, and grasped at anything to give yourself some sense of importance. You rewrote his legal drafts—including the one about women reading—if only to give yourself something to do, to stop from disappearing entirely. Selfishness was granted by God as a means to establish a new order where your ideals of domestic feminism remained, at least in theory. 

The word 'sacrifice' became a mantra for personal survival rather than an abstract concept, and sacrifice requires strength, perseverance, and transmutation. Possibly even transubstantiation. 

Somebody yells out the question you hate the most above your words. You're not saying anything they would disagree with: it's all anti-Gilead sentiment, it's all women's rights—and not in the way you used to frame them. But they won't shut the fuck up and simply listen. Of course, you probably wouldn't listen to you either if the roles had been reversed, but in the best possible ideal of yourself you hold onto, you believe you would. Again, the question floats over the din. 

It's something you've never had an answer to and you resent being bombarded with it during this rally, up here, in public. And nobody wants to hear the truth in your answer anyway. 

 _How could you not think this would happen, you dumbass bitch?_  

“I don't know!” you shout towards the restless crowd. The noise that erupts thrums with furious agitation and you had expected as much savagery. It's not the worst you've faced but the indignation rises in your throat, boiling, caustic and sharp. You had no idea truth tasted so sour, and how flippantly they can dismiss it. 

You simply hadn't known, hadn't considered it. You weren't thinking about any of those possibilities when you stood on stage and railed against the government and women who put their own selfish whims before childbearing, when you incited Fred to commit murder—just that one time (you'd told yourself), when you idly fantasized about a world without Congress and replacing it with scripture, when you scrawled red pen marks across Fred's pages to help him take your rights away, when you stood quietly aside as the Sons of Jacob warped your harsh legislative ideas instead into brute force slavery, when you happily donned the blue uniform of a wife and stayed silent about your book being thrown out with the garbage, when you begged God for a baby—if nothing else; there was nothing else left. The indifference, the lack of concern existed mostly because Gilead's existence wasn't meant to worry you; although he'd never made any such promises, you never thought the laws the Sons of Jacob designed would be upheld for you, or Wives in general. And, the worst part, honestly, you believed it may actually be The Way to solve the crisis. Your devotion to Gilead's promises was not mere lip service, not at first. Not for a very long time. Not until June ran and Fred beat you and Eden was drowned. 

It all spiralled so quickly, so you had merely recited, “Be steadfast in spirit and God will return with grace. Those who shrink back are destroyed, but those who have faith will be saved.” Time after time after worse time. In the whirlwind, your capitulation came with no resistance. Part of you will forever loathe your willingness to believe and surrender so easily, and be envious of June's stubborn resilience in the face of the same. Sacrifice, be strong, all for a baby. 

The more terrible it became, the more often you prayed and the more you relied on that unknown child to save you. Deeper and darker and more narrow the world became until light was extinguished altogether, leaving you only with absolute surrender to a man's world and quiet wrath wrapped up in Persian blue satin. 

They'd never understand that blindspot, borne from a combination of narcissism, delusion, and desperation. 

Your answer is unacceptable to the frothing mass but you know no answer will ever be.

As futile an attempt as it may be, you continue speaking, shouting above them about the ways that Gilead can be destroyed: You know so many weak spots. The fact there are so many survivors standing in this spot proves it's not indestructible, that so much more power thrives below the surface, waiting for its moment to explode. The more you scream, the louder they get and it's becoming harder to decipher whether its in agreement or opposition. Maybe both. 

You yell. They yell back. 

You raise your fist. They yell louder. 

There's a heady scent surrounding you, the inebriation of power. It had been stowed away in the dark, just like that box of trinkets and treasures from your childhood in the back corner of your bedroom closet in Gilead, and now that you're floating in it again, the addiction returns. This isn't just for yourself, or them, or June and Nicole, or the women still trapped beyond the border. It's for Madeline Prue, and Rita, and your mother and brother and cousins. It's for that weekly list of names—of those murdered by the state in the name of your God for the sake of men. There's nothing left to do except be the woman you should have been.

The look on Moira's face is pure regret for giving you this opening. 

A roar bellows up from the crowd. The moment someone hurls a water bottle in your direction, something snaps. A flashback to those tense, exhilarating moments before the gunshot that changed everything sends an electric shudder over your body. Last time, you cowered and ran—momentarily—before harnessing that hatred into force. Now, you know better and you flinch out the way, but you don't sprint offstage into June's waiting arms. She's not even fucking here; she said it would be a “stupid idea”. 

They all know what exists over that flimsy border to the south, and how easily ideas spread like a disease, especially when they're backed up with bullets. Canada doesn't have some supernatural immunity to all the influences that you pulled from the filthiest cracks of humanity in America. Just because it hasn't happened yet doesn't mean it won't. You've seen the covetous glances of women around Nicole, and overheard the barely hushed judgments about women not having babies. Poverty is increasing. It's only a matter of time... unless the poison is drained away now. 

You scream this at them, all of it. Gilead may fall soon, but its covenant with the Devil has been made. _Everlasting_ , that's what they say. _His kingdom endureth_. 

There are faces in the sea of anger that agree with you. _All_ of them do and you know it, but because it's your voice, your face, your history staring at them instead of Moira or Emily or June, they respond with vitriol. How dare you of all people, the uncrowned queen of Gilead, come to them begging for their help, their support, their forgiveness, their _sympathy_. 

They are all aware of the atrocities committed in the name of God and children but you recite them, one at a time, and it agitates every single person in the crowd. Chaos ensures shortly after the final crime you can think of: Eden's drowning. 

“Gilead is coming for us all!” More cacophony. “The future of mankind depends on what we do today!” They're familiar words, and said with exactly the same feeling, but standing on the other side of the fence throws you off balance for a moment. 

“ _This affects us all_!” 

“You're not one of us!” comes the reckoning wail, without missing a beat. In its echo, you hear the demand, _This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood_.

It's exhausting. So sick and tired of the same game, every day, every night, existing in mere grey areas between life and death, you asked God for a sign. He gifted you this rally. _Send me._ You'll give the rabid beasts their pound of flesh from their scapegoat. When you think back to the time before Gilead, when crowds like this screeched for your blood and guts, you had been terrified to give it to them but energized that they wanted it at all. Now, somehow, it's the opposite.

The crowd now thinks you should have known better, and that you could have squashed it in its infancy, as if it was merely an old bucket full of mosquito larvae, and you only had to kick it over. No, you couldn't have stopped Gilead--it was far bigger than a single person, a single book, a single gunshot wound at a riot. Perhaps, however, you could have slowed it down, even for a little while. The terrible secret was that Gilead's evil, its power wasn't based on some words on a page or a misguided idiot shouting at college students to soothe her own ego; it already was there. Inside. Fear yanked it out, gave it a voice. Crises designed by nature and the Sons of Jacob were merely the vehicles for its hatred to spread, slowly soaking in, like cyanide from apple seeds. A little bit at a time in the beginning, slightly more as the poison accumulated, then a wave. Torrents of it, really.

Gilead existed long before you came along: in nightmares, in dreams, in conversations around beer and turkey dinners, in online chat rooms, in clubhouses, in history and philosophy books, in secret meetings of men throughout time, in the very pages of your Holy Book. All of it rumbling menacingly underneath the soft white blankets of civil society, in the sewers of humanity, throughout time. Nobody ever wants to admit that. Nobody wants to admit how complicit they are, how their own apathy and procrastination contributed to everything that happened. Bubbles, rising up.

One by one.

Until...

Pop, pop, pop. You're one of the last of those bubbles. 

This time there are no security personnel to carve a path for you, and certainly no Guardians to protect you. When you climb down off of the stage and enter the throng of women who you helped the Sons of Jacob force into servitude of many types, you already know what the end result will be but you continue trying to speak to them, face to face. It may be easy to hate an abstract idea, in theory; it's much harder to take revenge on one. You're its old face, even when your mouth is saying everything they agree with. They need some _body_ to hate, a living breathing creature.

The first blow knocks you to the side and the tangy taste of rust floods your mouth, but you stand and push back. 

After that, you're not really sure what happens.

_Pop._

 

 

* * *

 “Oh, good. You're awake.” 

It's the first thing you hear as you blearily open your eyes to the blinding whites and greens of an aging hospital room. The voice is familiar. It wavers slightly, but there's a sharp edge, like the smoothness of a butcher's knife gliding through raw meat. Or a human throat. 

“Now, I can murder you myself.” 

The cardiac monitor beeps more frantically, wildly almost, until your eyes finally manage to focus on the face hovering above you. Oh, how the roles have reversed. You remember those times, staring down at her over a white hospital bed, glaring, imploring her to just fucking behave _for once_. Resentful that she's alive because you hated her so much, but so goddamn thankful that she was all the same because you needed her. You wonder what she needs from you here. 

Her blonde hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, and she actually looks tired, rings of red around her eyes and dark bags under them, as if she'd been at the hospital the whole time (How long has it been?). You know, deep down, she hasn't but it's a nice dream for you to cling onto and just the sight of her makes something inside you swell with relief. There's no other way you want to wake up any longer. It allows you to feel almost normal under the circumstances. 

You can barely move without spikes of pain shooting through every nerve in your body, and you have no idea what's injured and what isn't any longer. Even swallowing hurts. You briefly wonder if the pressure you can feel around your throat is her hands seeking the only vengeance they can. 

Maybe your voice still works, but your mouth is dry, sticky, and your tongue feels like like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together. “Hi.” It manages to come out as a pained whisper. That's the best you'll be able to manage until you get some water. 

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?” In the relative stillness of the room, her voice resonates sharply, like a bear trap snapping shut. 

You've seen her pissed off, desperate, hysterical, enraged. This is different; it's something unfamiliar. Her eyes are hard, glistening and piercing icicles in February hanging precariously over your head. Her skin is flushed pink, and there's a vein at the edge of her hairline that is pulsing a little bit closer to the surface than normal. She's livid... and terrified, that much you can hear in her tone. “ _Serena_.” 

The throbbing in your skull deepens, echoed in your abdomen, and throughout your chest. Every thumping heartbeat fuels the pain more. She probably thinks you're wincing at her words, but you really want some damn water. 

Why won't she give it to you? 

“Selfish, stupid, reckless idiot.” She glances at a cup of water on your bedside tray and passes it to you with no gentleness. Just purpose. Her eyes remain cold and furious. “Why?” 

Drops of water splash over the rim of the silly paper cup as you shakily raise it to your parched lips. God, it feels like a drug itself as the cool water slides over your tongue, relief flowing down your throat. If you could shrug, you would. 

There are a lot of reasons, many relying on a delusional sort of narcissism that only you could appease the vicious, bloodthirsty crowds with your sacrifice. Least of all, you wanted to give Moira her vengeance. Maybe if you were dead, she'd finally fucking believe you. 

Then you think about those tattoos you'd joked about getting before all this, as you both stood outside that tiny parlour and you told her the fable of the frog and scorpion. Your answer becomes crystal clear. 

“It's in my nature.” Your voice is hoarse and not much louder than a whisper even now but she hears you just fine. 

Shaking her head, she rolls her eyes. “That's not funny.” Her hand finally finds your cold one, and her fingers are tight around yours. You fear she may squeeze out the IV if she's not careful. “For fuck's sake, Serena. Have you ever thought about anybody other than yourself?” 

The heart monitor beeps faster again because you realise she means herself. Not even Nicole. Her. _Have you ever cared about me? Did you ever consider what this would do to me?_ Raising the cup to your mouth is an easy distraction; avoidance has always been a particularly fond habit of yours. You can't face her question, you can't consider how heavy it is, and how much guilt it places on your shoulders. It's difficult to bite your tongue but it's all you can do to resist repeating the words you'd said. 

Instead, you squeeze her hand in return. “Where's Nicole?” 

Finally, she relaxes and settles into the chair beside your bed. There's a soft pulse of heat as she brushes your finger with her own. So soft. “She's at home.” Her voice has lost that edge. “You know, I was watching some footage on the news, of what you did. That speech. In front of that crazy crowd,” she shakes her head in disbelief. “It was pretty amazing.” 

You try to laugh, but it comes out as a weak sputtering cough instead. “Well, I have a lot of practice giving speeches to crowds of people who hate me.” Your voice sounds rough and ragged Disembodied and distant, like it’s not yours, as if you’re throwing it like some bizarre conjurer's trick. June flinches at the sound. 

“Must have felt right at home, then,” she muses and stares down at your interlaced fingers. “I think we—we were all thinking how different things could have been if you'd been on our side first. You could have been doing this from the beginning.” 

You'd often considered June a master of many things, but not until now do you add blatant guilt-tripping to that list. There's very little you could even say to argue, and nothing that would prove her wrong because she's really not. So instead, you stay quiet and stare at the blank white tiles on the ceiling hoping that if you wait long enough, she'll move on to another subject, one that's less aggravating. However, you know that's not in _her_ nature. 

“Remember that time the Mexican ambassador came, and you put on that show. That was the only time I'd ever seen you command a room, and you were so full of bullshit. I _hated_ it, but you got them. This was the second.” Shaking her head, she sighs. “You could have done _so_ much more _for_ us.” 

It's more than enough to make her point. “June.” As if lying here in a hospital bed, beaten half to death isn't good enough, she always has to poke at your wounds a little more. 

“You know,” she softens as she speaks. “Moira was the one who got you out; she saved your life probably. Called it an _unsanctioned salvaging_ and that sort of did the trick.” She snorts a little at the idea. 

The fact that it took a woman who literally hates everything about you to drag the frothing dogs off your throat makes you feel a suffocating sinfulness, a noxious humiliation, because had the roles been switched, you're not entirely certain it would have been the same even now. You wish it to be true, but you can never be sure. 

Warmth builds in your eyes. 

“The police are going to charge you with inciting a riot.” A rueful smile passes over her lips.  “ _Again_.” 

You find yourself rolling your eyes this time. Of course they are. “Old habits die hard, I guess.” 

“Serena,” she says, barely above a whisper. “You look pretty gross now... but, you looked good up there.” 

You raise an eyebrow. It sounds like a trap, and you can never get too comfortable in June's rare compliments. 

She chuckles and looks down again, a shy smirk on her face. “Like, seriously hot.” 

“Don't be stupid.” You blush like a schoolgirl anyway, realizing this is the first time she has ever complimented you. It's been years since anybody at all has said a positive thing about your appearance. That may seem like a shallow, small, trivial thing to most but for some reason, it means a lot. You know she respects your intelligence, you know she is satisfied by your body, but this final piece makes it clear she actually likes you, like you're finally worthy of forgiveness. 

(Well, maybe. Maybe not. That's not really up to you anymore.) 

“You're stupid,” she retorts, petulantly, like she's purposefully attempting to be childish. A subtle mockery of your reaction, most likely. But, also, there is a grain of truth to the words, if you dig really deep down and confront what's inside you. 

The doctor sweeps in, wearing a perplexed frown on her face and glancing between you and the tablet in her hand, barely acknowledging June at your bedside, as if she's part of the furniture already. 

“Mrs. Waterford,” she begins and it rakes across your ears like nails on a chalkboard. You're not that woman anymore ( _Fuck you, Mrs. Waterford_.). As soon as you get out of this goddamn hospital, your next stop is going to be some sort of registry office. You want a new name, and a divorce would be nice. You wonder how that would even work if the entire legal entity that created the marriage contract no longer exists. “My name is Dr. Cohen and I'll be taking over your care for the day. I'm sure the nurses filled in some of the blanks this morning?” 

You nod, your fingers flexing in June's grasp. 

The doctor taps on the tablet for a long minute, scrolling through whatever reports are enthralling her so deeply. “Well, okay, your scans and numbers all look good, and you're probably pretty sore but it doesn't look like it was as bad as it could have been.” She passes you a very pointed look, as if she knows exactly who you are and what you've done, and isn't particularly happy about you getting off so easily. “Only soft tissue damage; no broken bones, nothing to worry about.” 

“Perfect,” you murmur, partly sarcastically. It feels like you've been steamrolled by a 4-tonne garbage truck but apparently that's perfectly fine in her world. _The righteous shall rejoice when he seeth the vengeance_. Why wouldn't that be fine with everyone else?

The chair creaks as June shifts and sighs. The doctor glances at her finally, studying her for a moment, before turning back to you with the most impassive recognition you've ever seen. In fact, you're a little bit jealous of her talent. 

“I would like to do an ultrasound, just to be certain that baby is all healthy too.” 

The room darkens and narrows noticeably, crushing in on you until all you feel is your own heart beat and June's sweaty hand in yours. Your lips quirk upwards, because it's got to be a stupid joke, something June paid her to do, to get back at you for your behaviour at the rally. But if that is the case, this doctor is better suited for Oscar award-worthy acting than medicine because there is not even the most minuscule hint of amusement on her face. 

She blinks slowly and hesitantly continues, tiptoeing over her own words. “There are a few results that are slightly more elevated than I'd like.” 

It's June, not you, who breaks the tension and confusion. “Baby?” 

There is a long silence as Dr. Cohen looks to you, then June, then back to you. Finally, something resembling human expression graces her face, and she looks almost concerned. “Oh.” She narrows her eyes at you. “Did you not...” And then the light switches on. “You didn't know.” 

You stare, dumbstruck, briefly. This was supposed to be impossible, and really? That drunk loser from the bar all those months ago? (To him, likely you'd also be “that drunk loser from the bar”.) You don't even know the guy's name. God has made it official: you are a fallen woman, on every single level. June has nothing on you. There's a wince that passes over her lips when you look towards her now but you remind yourself you've told her about him, about that drunken, messy week or so when you'd divorced yourself from her, sanity, and reality. That part is no surprise. In the state you were in, would it really be shocking that on top of being so completely unlike yourself, you were also self-destructively unprepared and unsafe? 

“Well, we'll have to do an ultrasound to be sure, but I'd suspect you're about 8 weeks along, give or take.” The room remains still, neither you nor June seem able to form words, or breathe. “Congratulations.” Dr. Cohen wavers slightly, like she's not entirely certain it's good news, and if you had been her, you'd probably read the room similarly. 

It's likely prickly, uncomfortable, tense. Harrowing.

“I'm pregnant,” you whisper, still disbelieving. When had you even had your period last? With all the hell around Fred's butchering of your friends and family, it must have slipped your mind.

The doctor steps back from your bedside and shifts her weight. “I'll get the ultrasound scheduled and then you're free to go home.” She's out of the room more quickly than you would think she could move, probably spurred by the awkward silence hanging over the two of you. 

June doesn't say anything more but her right hand finds the edge of the hospital blanket, dipping under, slowly sliding her hand softly down to your hips. She looks to you, briefly, before pulling the hospital gown up just enough for her hand to ghost over your abdomen before settling heavily over the space where your baby is. Under the blanket, all is warm, and you squeeze her other hand with yours, finally meeting her awed gaze. Both of you are too overwhelmed to say very much. Her finger idly touches on the bullet wound scar, tracing its outline before resting again against the growing life inside you. 

“Wow.” Her voice is breathy. “Serena.” Her lips press into a small smile before a weak, incredulous laugh flutters out. 

 _Oh, Lord. What the fuck?_  

Tears are building in your eyes and any minute, they're going to escape. Had it always been this easy? Everything you'd done, every horrible word and deed you'd excused with Godliness and sacrifice seems grossly unnecessary now. Ultimately, it's not solely joy that is causing your tears anymore. 

“Oh my god, Fred is going to flip out.” Her tone is so exceptionally smug. “Nothing says _male_ sterility quite like this.” 

For a moment, her comment hangs in the air around you both like a wreath from the Kentucky Derby. His impotence—not yours—will be the world's to know now, in every possible way. It's not all about him, this miracle, of course. But it's impossible for you to separate him from this completely, since it was part of everything you were for so much of your life. At least not until her hand slips up over your gown, reverently tracing your ribs in the area of your tattoo as if she knows the map of your body by heart. It's the crucifix you'd had done when you were in college as a testament to your devotion to the Lord. If you'd known back then that all you needed was some body ink and losing yourself at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, maybe your life wouldn't have taken the route it did.

 

 

* * *

 You don't cry, not immediately. It's not until the ultrasound technician swivels the screen towards you, and you listen to the faint whooshing rhythm of a fetal heartbeat that you begin to lose it. But still, you chew your lip between your teeth and clench your mangled hand into a fist around the hospital sheets. Flashbacks to Gilead swirl in your periphery, standing beside her as you both took in the little womb acrobat that would eventually become Nicole. Your beautiful miracles. Rare. Fragile. As precarious as a dainty crystal glass perched at the edge of a table in a busy room. It may be knocked over, it may not. Hope is too dangerous a thing to have when healthy birth rates are still so low.

It's only when you look away, and over to June—the only person you truly trust in this world—instead and see that she's staring at the blurry image on the screen, a wide, awed smile on her face with a misty sort of haze over her eyes that you finally break. If she believes, it's like permission to hope again. She's pushed that glass back from the edge. You grab hurriedly for her hand and hang on with everything you've got.

_Surely there is a future, and thy hope shall not be cut off._


	10. and on the edge of winter, i hear the music

They were going to come for you someday, that much was a given. You just didn't expect it to be when you're splayed out on the living room floor with Nicole and Hannah as June chases them around the coffee table. Tackling Nicole easily, she pulls the squawking child in, blowing raspberries against her little belly as she squeals in laughter. Hannah manages to help her sister squirm out of their mother's grasp, and June launches herself at you. There's a knock at the door but you both ignore it, assuming it's a visitor for Moira, Erin, or the Woodmans. 

It's been quite a few weeks since the riot and you still have a few soft, sore spots but just as the bruises heal, other asomatous wounds get opened here and there. You try not to dwell, but the nightmares have not disappeared. Like a drying river after a flood, they've receded in the recent weeks, leaving muck and bones in the aftermath. There is always something to be scared of now, no matter what. Still, the leaves are beginning to turn colours to bright yellows and vibrant reds instead of the swathes of dull brown that used to permeate your vision. The hint of a chill is in the air, much later than this time last year. Even the seasons are in your favour these days, and perhaps the world is finally beginning to even out. Every time you gaze at her when she's smiling like this, your breath catches tightly in your throat and the world brightens. Even despite the shadows that lurk around corners and in the glares of other women, the ultrasound, Nicole, June, _everything_ seems so beautiful, everywhere.

You're laughing, like proper loud sounds, as June pushes up your t-shirt to get to your stomach too. She attempts to blow raspberries against your growing baby bump as it stretches your old scar and Nicole whacks her over the head with a fluffy bear, sputtering indignantly and nonsensically about the baby in your tummy, probably. You can feel June's giggle against your skin, and she takes a deep breath before returning her attention to your belly. Hannah squeals at the squishy noises. 

It's only when you open your eyes and try to catch your breath that you see a group of men in navy blue and black uniform standing a few feet away. They have guns by their sides and bulletproof vests, Guardians of a different kind. June's mouth is still against you and your muscles tense immediately. She must feel the difference, because she pauses and looks up as you yank your clothes back into place. 

A chill falls slowly over the room like the drizzle of freezing rain, and Hannah begins voraciously chewing on her nails, a nervous habit she's developed whenever her thoughts stray back to the traumatic memories of Gilead. Nicole babbles and climbs onto your chest. Both you and June hold her in place as she attempts to get your attention by grabbing at the neck of your shirt and repeating, “Mama!” over and over. June shushes her insistently as the two of you stand up, taking in the insignia. _Americans_. Their flag still has 50 stars, a symbol of all the resilience and obstinance--the sheer arrogant optimism that your country was born with, and died with. But perhaps that flag, those 50 stars they recognise even now, prove that the USA isn't dead. It's still there, living under a strange name with bad men in charge but they won it from the British once, they can do it again. This war may be different, with stronger enemies and new weapons, but it's not over. These leviathans towering over you and June are evidence of the American Dream: that it can exist, and still does.

There is a CBSA agent with them, of course because this is not American soil, it is not the jurisdiction of your government, and Marnie is with them too, wincing at the scene but saying nothing. 

“Serena Waterford,” one of the men states as Moira comes barrelling loudly down the stairs to see what’s going on. He looks a bit like Mark Tuello but you're not entirely certain anymore; that was years ago and he wouldn't do this. His promise was coconuts, not handcuffs. 

“Yes?” 

Moira, who has been throwing herself into international legal studies here, bursts into the room. “The fuck?” she barks loudly, and pushes past the burliest of the officers. She may not like you very much even now, and would probably be the first to insist you go to prison for life, but she hates the blunt exercise of injustice against women even more. 

One of them slips behind you, sliding the cuffs into place. “You need to come with us.” 

 _The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,_  
_The devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd._

Nicole is wailing for you in June's arms and there's nothing you can do to stop it. This is the part you've seen on TV over and over and over again. It’s the same tale you dictated to others in Gilead. They'll take you in, have you locked in a dark cell until you give birth while strapped to a hospital bed, surrounded by cold and efficient strangers. Then they'll steal your newborn infant before you can even say hello to the life you carried for nine months, throw you back in prison, and pass around your baby to various other strangers before settling on a new home, one where they will never tell your child where they came from, or whose evil womb birthed them. Your name will never be uttered alongside the words "your mother". They'll never mention how you were executed by the United States of America for treason and crimes against humanity. You will never see your baby again, never inhale that new baby smell, never breastfeed, never again hold the tiny body next to your skin to soothe the cries, never watch an infant grow to a toddler to a teenager to an adult. The newborn baby will not be yours. Your life is over.

 _Ironic_ , you muse, thinking about Handmaids and Gilead and everything you had planned for Nicole with Offred out of the picture. Your limbs tremble violently with the pressing reality of this moment. You'd assumed you'd be ready for this eventuality, but you're really not. Not even close.

There's a flicker in June's eyes that makes you believe she's thinking the same thing. How fitting the punishment, perhaps, for a person like you. But, there's an empathetic twinge in her face, the shared grief of a mother who has faced the loss of her baby too and it overwhelms all the snide voices clamouring about karmic retribution. She knows, more than anybody else. Moira is arguing loudly with Marnie, who is powerless, you already know. This is an inevitability, but the timing seems particularly cruel, a subtle torture designed specifically for you by a vindictive higher power, payback for all the host of abuses you've committed and not yet atoned for. You'd outrun it for so long, and finally it's clamped metal around your wrists and pushed the air out of the room.

Normally, you’d be yelling too, cursing and fighting against every restraint but something about this feels broken and futile, like the end of the line that has been reeling you in for a long time.   

 _Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib'd_  
_In one self place, for where we are is hell,_  
_And where hell is must we ever be._

Quickly, June places the screeching toddler beside a cowering Hannah and moves towards you. They will all be safe and raised with love; you can only pray the child growing inside you will be too. You can't even hug Nicole goodbye, not with the pinch of cold metal cuffs behind your back, helplessly capturing your disfigured hands together. June doesn't say anything but you'd know that look of resignation anywhere. She'll be fine, she was always the one who would survive it all and you'd known that all along. But you? You'd never been certain, and this is the reason. Of course they come for you now when you'd finally found life, and a good one at that. She stretches up, and kisses you, so softly a pain shoots through your chest. It's nothing like that time on the riverbank. She hovers, her face almost against yours as you attempt to memorise the feel of her warmth. For a second, you rest your forehead against hers, waiting and desperate to say something to her, anything at all, but everything is choked and tangled in your chest, suffocated by the very real fear overwhelming you now. All you manage is a shuddering breath, not even a goodbye. 

_I am seized, and bound, and delivered._

Right before they yank you away from the home you'd built here from the rubble of Gilead, she whispers one final farewell. 

 

“Blessings on you, Serena.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prose from ["The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus"](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/779/779-h/779-h.htm#2H_4_0003) by Christopher Marlowe (based on "The Historie of the Damnable Life, and Deserved Death, of Doctor Iohn Faustus."). The last quoted line however is from the more recognisable [Goethe's "Faust"](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/14591/14591-h/14591-h.htm#XXV).

**Author's Note:**

> title & summary excerpt from emily stoddard's poem, "savior ellipsis" in 'a sappho tribute' from figroot press, 2017. it's pretty impossible to find it online now since the publisher's account is down. but i do have it.
> 
>  
> 
> finally, no, i will not spell "nicole" with an "h". sorry, lol.


End file.
